


Calm Before the Storm

by Tinker888



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinker888/pseuds/Tinker888
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randall and Lix face circumstances that pull them back together, only to threaten to tear them apart. (Post Season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood and Memories

Randall Brown sat furtively at the far end of the bar nursing a coffee. It was a rare and lovely spring day, sunny and although a bit brisk, still very serviceable. The double doors to the outside seating area were flung open. A cool breeze, dusted with a sprinkle of pollen rippled through his hair, which no matter how much Brylcreem he put on, refused to be truly tamed. He was thinking back on his younger days when his hair would have been left untamed and this cup of coffee would have been a glass of something more potent. He supposed it would be cause for ridicule from some of his old friends. He supposed it still was for some. He interrogated himself, delineating his weaknesses, his failings over the years. There were many, there could be no doubt. But the most painful one was the woman standing just outside on the patio with several of the team from the show, her camera scrunched to her smiling face as she framed the shot of her coworkers.

She had changed so little and he had changed so much. Or so he thought. She was still wickedly intelligent, willfully sassy and stunningly beautiful. He sipped his coffee as he drank her in. She was his failure to end all failures. He wanted her so badly, but he could not claim his prize.

“No, no, that’s not the right way to frame it,” he thought. She was no prize to be claimed. She was more than that. Her name was Storm, but to him she was always the source of calming, of quieting. She was the only one who had ever brought him peace. “A gift,” he thought, “more of a gift than a prize.” In the end it didn’t really matter. Prize, gift, calm or storm; any way you called it he had lost it. He had hoped their daughter would help them reconnect, but now that was classified in the failure column as well. He was devastated, and Lix knew it. But while he wanted her love, he could hardly bare to stand her pity. He would never let her pity bring her back to him.

He ordered another cup of coffee and slid up the bar closer to the double doors leading outside. He lied to himself that the reason for this was to get a bit more of the fresh air, but he knew it was to be closer to Lix. She was wearing a crisp light blue blouse, a summer-thin cashmere white cardigan tied around her waist and flattering cropped khaki slacks. It reminded him of when they first met in Barcelona. Before the dead horses, dead people, and deep red stains of blood in the crevasses between the cobble of the street took over those memories. But this was not Spain, the stone corners of the building were not etched with the trails of bullets. And although London had deep bitter scars from the war, it had never had to bear the assault of ground troops sullying her.Those scenes from Spain, over twenty years ago, were burned in his mind in grey tones, black and white images, except for the blood in the streets and for Alexis Storm. These were the only things that had any color in his memories. He had arrived about seven days before Lix. They had both gone to Spain in July of 1936 to cover the People’s Olympiad, but had ended up covering a devastating civil war. He stayed because he was vehemently opposed to fascism and because of his overwhelming desire to tell the story truthfully with the hope that it might spurn action from other nations. He grew up fast, learning that the truth and horror alone would not necessarily result in actions from distant governments. He honed his journalism chops, surrounded by some of the best; George Soria, David Seymour and Lawrence Fernworth, they all were ensconced at the Hotel Majestic in Barcelona or, the Hotel Florida when they were in Madrid. These were the set pieces where the hard-working days followed by equally hard-drinking nights formed a backdrop for his coming of age. He blinked hard, his eyes flitting to the bottles of Scotch lined up across the counter from him. Then he took a deep breath and shook off the memory. He decided it would be safer to focus on something else, so he shifted his gaze across the street.

It was a quiet afternoon, the street was mostly empty, with the exception of a delivery van just pulling up across the street. The driver exited, then furtively looked around. He squinted into the afternoon sun, then spotting the group on the patio outside, he smirked. Randall stopped himself. Had he imagined that? It was quite odd, but he was sure he had seen a smirk. He had seen smirks like that before, usually in a conflict zone, immediately preceding an act of obscene violence. The smirk and, though it was hard to tell, the cap he was wearing both caused Randall to focus on this stranger. The cap looked quite like a Nationalist officer’s cap. He loathed that kind of smirk and that kind of cap and it nagged at him. He watched the man walk aggressively to the back of the vehicle, open the doors and pull out a long parcel, something wrapped loosely in a wool blanket.

Randall stood up. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled in warning. Something was very wrong, he felt it. He walked to the double doors. Lix smiled at him, but he did not return it. He absently set his cup on the first table he came to and peered across the street, like an eagle sighting its prey. Meanwhile, Lix leaned back, one leg bent and her foot planted on the wall, steadying herself as she advanced the film through her camera and framing Randall in the viewfinder. She snapped a few quick portraits.

Randall’s gaze was now following the driver as he disappeared behind the far side of the van. Lix pulled the camera away from her eye, looked over at him, and frowned. She recognized the posture, the furrowed brow, the way his shoulders were pulled back. He was tense. She tried to follow his eyes, to see what had caught his attention, but she just saw an empty street, a van and a woman walking her dog. Hardly the type of scene to cause such consternation. But Lix knew Randall well enough to trust that he was worried. Randall, always the master of observation, always the one to spot something out of place, and try to fix it. It was the desire to fix everything, to put it in its proper place, that was almost his undoing, but it had saved her life and countless others, over and over again in Spain, and during the last war and who knew how many other times. Lix trusted that look.

The camera slacked in her hands, her attention now completely focused on him, “What is it Randall?”

He raised his right hand, silencing her so he could concentrate. There was a ghost of movement and Randall saw the barrel of a rifle swing up over the hood of the van. The driver was hidden, crouched behind the vehicle. Randall followed the line from the gun to its target, turning his head, he saw the weapon was aimed at Lix. His eyebrows rose and he moved with astonishing speed, spinning around, blocking Lix. He threw his hands up against the wall on either side of her head. Lix, not understanding, glared at him, “Randall, what the hell is going on?”

Before he could answer a shot rang out, the repercussion echoing through the narrow street. Then everything went into slow motion. Randall was staring right into Lix’s eyes. The look on his face was one of fear and longing and regret. It didn’t suit him, she thought, and was about to point that out, when he jerked and blood sprayed across her and a bullet, having lost most of its velocity as it decelerated through Randall’s flesh and bone, hit the wall next to her left ear. She shut her eyes reflexively, but immediately realized she was fine and opened them to see what had happened. Randall sagged a bit falling slightly into her, pinning her against the wall.

“Alexis, for God’s sake, get down, please,” he croaked. Then he was sliding down the wall, falling on his back to the ground. He had called her Alexis. He almost never did that. It was him calling her by her given name that impressed the desperation of the situation upon her, vividly. Lix fell with him, holding tightly onto his jacket lapels. Around them people were screaming. Someone with a few grains of common sense, threw down a couple of tables to serve as scant cover. Another shot rang out. Wood chips flew off of one of the edges of the upturned tables. Someone was shouting, the bartender was calling the police. Things were happening all around them, a cacophony of motion and sound, but all of that existed beyond the sphere that enclosed Lix and Randall.

She stared at him, stunned with the realization that he had just been shot. He had blocked a bullet meant for her. A thick, sticky red splotch spread out from his shoulder under his suit. Lix peeled back the jacket, exposing a formerly immaculate, crisp white shirt, now torn by the bullet and soaked scarlet with Randall’s blood. Lix snapped out of her shocked state. She untied the sweater she had around her waist and pushed it into Randall’s shoulder. Then she loosened his tie, removing it so she could use it as a make-shift tourniquet.

Lix looked up trying to get someone’s attention. “Shit! Somebody get a bloody ambulance!”

He squirmed under the pressure she was putting on the wound. She turned her attention back to him. He looked pale, well, paler than usual. She shook her head. “For the love of god Randall, why did you do that?”

He very slowly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, struggling against the pain. Then he opened his eyes, staring at Lix with a look of complete bewilderment, as if it was so blatantly obvious that he could not fathom why she would even need to ask. She pushed an errant lock of hair off his forehead, and he smiled at her, “Alexis. You are… worth at least… a thousand of me.” He struggled to get the words out, but he never broke eye contact with her.

“Oh for god’s sake Randall." She was about to launch into a lengthy discussion of how flawed his statement was, when he reached up and shakily grabbed her hand.

“Lix…don’t argue…”

Alexis Storm stopped. All those carefully constructed barriers crumbling. He had said that to her in Spain when the bombs were falling and the heat had been cut off and he wanted to enfold her in his arms, to warm her and protect her, as best he could given the circumstances. Death had only been a heartbeat away in those days. She supposed that was always the case, but now the potential immediacy of that insight froze her to the bone. She squeezed his hand and leant down to brush his lips with a kiss. She whispered in his ear, “Don’t you dare die on me Randall Brown. We have unfinished business.”

His eyes widened and a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at this comment, and he murmured, “I’ll try Lix,” before lapsing into unconsciousness.

Slowly, Lix’s senses unfolded and the shouts and sirens and chaos starkly took center stage. An ambulance medic approached and knelt next to her and Randall. He gently placed his hands over Lix’s where she was compressing her sweater against the wound, “Ma’m, I’m a medic. My name is Jason. Let me take that over for you.” Lix stared at him as if he was speaking in another language. She looked down at her blood-soaked garment. Jason removed her hands and set the sweater on the ground. His partner joined him with a stretcher.

“Gunshot wound, clean through the shoulder. He’s in shock and has significant blood loss. Let’s get a pressure pack and an IV going to stabilize. We need to transport him immediately.” Jason worked quickly. He had seen much worse in Korea, but knew that the injury was severe, especially since it looked like the bullet had clipped an artery. “Radio in that we’re on our way to Kingston. It’s closest.” He helped Lix to her feet and stood her aside as they loaded Randall onto a stretcher. 

Lix stepped forward, “I want to come with him in the ambulance.”

Jason looked over his shoulder, “Certainly mam, follow us. We will situate your husband, then you can hop in. We’ve got to get to hospital straight on.”

Lix looked at the man puzzled, then said softly, “He’s not my husband.” But the medics were already half-way to their van and didn’t hear her. She fingered the ring hanging on the chain around her neck like a talisman. Then she sprinted over to the ambulance and clambered in the back. She took a seat on the bench across from Randall, taking his hand in her’s, gently circling her thumb in the area between his thumb and index finger. A quick drive and they were at the hospital. Jason asked her to step out first, then move aside. It was one of the rare times that Alexis Storm did as she was told.


	2. A Long Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Randall is in surgery, an exhausted Lix waits for news and drifts off to sleep where her dreams are filled with memories of the past.

Lix trailed behind the ambulance crew as they wheeled Randall’s stretcher into the operating room and turned him over to the surgeons. She stood suddenly alone in the quiet hallway as the metal doors swung shut, her hands pressed against the cold metal barrier imposed upon her. She turned and slowly walked back to the waiting room. Some of the team from The Hour, BBC people and various other journalists and friends who had come to know Randall Brown over the years flittered in and out over the course of the first few hours. Eventually the police came and took a statement and informed Lix that the gunman had escaped, and that they were concerned for her safety, hence the bobbie who lingered near the seating area. After spending at least thirty minutes in the restroom, washing Randall’s blood from her hands, Lix alternated between pacing, drinking coffee, wishing for something stronger and pretending to sleep curled up in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs. She had too many recent memories of waiting rooms from Freddie’s near demise, now here she was again and she hated every aspect of it. Lix looked up at the clock for at least the hundredth time. The afternoon had turned to dusk and Lix was in the uncomfortable situation of not knowing what was going on, of not being in control, at least to some degree, however tenuous. She was static and immobilized as others did their work. It was an abnormal state for Lix Storm. There had been a days like that during her coverage of war, whether it was in Spain or more recently as World War II had raged, but even then, she could usually devise some course of action always keeping herself in motion, always moving forward. Lix Storm never had learned how to be still. Here, sitting and waiting for the doctors to do something, she was out of her element. She drifted into an uneasy sleep, memories of long ago flittering amongst her experiences of the day.

It was 1934 and the brutal miner’s strike in Spain exposed the first hints of the brutalities to come and also marked photographer Bill Brandt’s decision to abandon Germany out of disgust at the rise of fascism and to make England his home. He had just married Eva Boros a couple of years earlier in Barcelona. Lix had met the couple just after she received her first Leica, a gift from her father. She had been playing around with her new prize, seated at a back table at a local pub, when Bill and Eva had tumbled in with their equipment.

“I beg your forgiveness for my interruption,” Brandt said in a soft voice. “But it looks quite new, your camera. I’m a photographer, or photojournalist, or both, I suppose you’d say. ”

Lix beckoned them to take up the two chairs across the table from her. “Please join me. That is quite a kit you have. Are you a professional?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d say that, but I’ve studied with Man Ray and I love taking pictures, but it is just what I do.”

“I’ve just received this as a gift and while I’m intrigued I’m also a bit out of my element.” Lix held the camera up awkwardly.

“Well, if I may,” he reached his hands out and Lix handed him the camera. “This is a lovely gift. You’re lucky to have been given it. These cameras will change the world. They are so portable, so…immediate. And that’s the key, you just get yourself to the right place at the right time and anyone could take the picture.”

“Perhaps, but me, I need to learn how this device works. Otherwise I will not even be anyone.”

“Oh, I think you’ll pick this up. You seem the type to learn quickly. The mechanics are easy. I can help you master that. It’s the human side you need to work the most at. Remember always, that you need to capture people when they are serious. You are not just snapping a picture at a picnic. These images will last for many years to come. Always remember that before you click the shutter and freeze the moment in your photograph.”

Lix found herself mesmerized by Bill. He had a kind and soft voice. He didn’t speak much, but when he did it was lyrical. The trio instantly hit it off and they spent quite a bit of time together. Bill tutored Lix on her camera, coached her on composition and lighting, and taught her how to develop film. 

“Lix,” he’d say, “always develop your own film. Never entrust it to anyone else. Ninety percent of what shows up on the photograph is made in the darkroom.” Bill had adamantly told her this many times.

He also waxed poetically about the importance of this modern, highly portable version of the camera. He shared his excitement that this would usher in a completely new type of journalism. Lix soaked it all up and even joined the couple a few times on their photo-shoots. Bill and Eva were exploring night photography and Lix provided some local knowledge on locations. Walking about London, Bill often spoke of the social contrast, the rich and the poor, the high society and the slums; he felt it was an exemplar of a deeper, societal ill, that might consume the world and recent political events seemed to give weight to his fears. Lix, who was always intensely interested in current affairs and international news absorbed Bill’s insights with gusto. She had travelled to other countries, but only as a tourist. She began to aspire to more than that. Lix learned the nuts and bolts mechanics of photography with Bill, but more importantly he opened her thoughts about what kind of career she wanted, what she could accomplish in the world. He helped her start to question things, and interrogate the world around her using the camera as a tool to explore her ideals. When Lix asked him about Barcelona, Bill would tell her about the people, the underlying tensions, the vibrancy of change that intermixed with the dappled Mediterranean sunlight. He helped her hone her school-taught Spanish into fluency with the language. He gave her his insider’s knowledge of hidden local cafes and bars and people she might want to meet should she ever arrive there. Lix had avidly absorbed his narratives, wondering if she would ever get the chance to see what he had seen.

Bill also helped her get in with some photo agencies, and Lix took it from there. She started to stack up a solid body of work. She would go places others would not. She would tackle the tough stories. Her reputation grew. Although she now rarely saw him, she always kept in correspondence with Bill and was grateful for his mentoring early in her career. It was late spring in 1936 when Lix got a call from one of her agency contacts about an assignment in Spain. She had been asked to cover the People’s Olympiad in Barcelona. Finally after year’s of waiting she would go to Spain. She called Bill to let him know and he gave her one last bit of advice, “Always take your pictures intuitively. Never plan them.” 

Lix did not think she would have a problem following that advice as she packed her bags and turned her attentions to Spain. The divisions and conflicts there were mirrored and amplified all across Europe. It was as if Spain was a microcosm for all of the changes brewing elsewhere. She wanted to cover it. She wanted to be where the action was. From what Bill had told her this could end up being more complex and meaningful than it appeared at first glance; more the like the kind of assignment she had been itching for. 

A few days later, Lix was fiddling with her trusted Leica III as she sat in the backseat of a Fiat 508 Balilla. On the final leg of her journey, her driver barreled along a rural road that spit them out from the French border toward her destination, Barcelona. The Fiat was a stout and dusty black vehicle with an alarming lack of any discernible suspension. To Lix’s eyes, the tires were impossibly thin. It seemed miraculous that they were not flat after the first few moments of driving on the pitted and uneven road. The driver seemed hell-bent on hitting every single rut. But that didn’t matter to Lix. She was on her way to Barcelona at last. Checking the camera over, she saw the lens was dusty again, due no doubt to the same dust blanketing the car and truth be told, also due to her lack of discipline in replacing the lens cap. There was no sense cleaning it until she got to the city. Bill had always admonished her to be more careful with her camera. But Lix Storm wasn’t careful with herself, was not ever going to be beholden to other’s rules and she was not going to become obsessed with trying to keep her Leica dust-free. The way she saw it, she needed it to be a bit rough at the edges. The camera, lenses, light meter, they all needed to be ready at her side. If she was more worried about damaging her equipment than getting the shot, then she was done. If she was fussing with removing the lens cap, she might miss the chance to catch a crucial moment. She knew how to fix it when it broke, clean it with her air puff and silk handkerchief so as not to scratch the lens, modify it when necessary and if that meant that she frequently forgot to put the lens cap back on it, so be it. She loved that camera, but it was a tough love.

The car eventually entered the city and pulled up to the Majestic Hotel Inglaterra, or as everyone called it “The Majestic”. Its filleted corner jutting out into the street as if to proclaim its prominence over the surrounding buildings. Sitting at the intersection of Carrer de Valencia and Passeig de Gracia it managed to somehow achieve both an imposing facade and a comforting appearance. Lix was also struck by the combination of the European metropolitan air of the city that coexisted with more common people and activities. There was a boy selling Spanish pottery on a street corner with his burro tied to a lamppost while businessmen in suits sauntered past him. A woman selling flowers, a babushka on her head, as she took the money from her upper class customers wearing the latest fashions. 

After unloading her travel bag and camera pack, checking in and getting her room settled, she stepped back out onto the street, camera slung over her shoulder. She knew where she wanted to go, it was a place Bill had told her about. Most of the other journalists would be ensconced at the hotel bar, but she wanted to get a taste of the city first. There would be plenty of time for her compatriots later. Bill had given her an inside scoop on a bar called Casa Almirall and as soon as he had described it she knew she wanted to go there straightaway. She flagged a taxi and headed off. 

It was a languidly hot and humid afternoon. The air hung heavily on the city, threatening to smother everyone under its sheer density. The bar was small, with the dominant feature being a sturdy marble bar-top. The shelves behind it were cradled in flowing, vaguely art deco, mahogany woodwork. Lix sighed as she entered the space. She felt a sense of relief after her long journey. She sidled up to the bar, deciding to utilize her Spanish, “Cual es su especialidad?”

The bartender looked at her over the top of his spectacles. His angular but friendly face was painted with a quizzical look. “You are from England?” He spoke in English but with a thick Spanish accent.

“Si…I mean yes. Is it that obvious?” asked Lix with a self-effacing laugh, slightly disappointed that she had been so easily identified as a non-native.

“Quite obvious Señorita.” He smiled kindly. “Your Spanish es muy bueno, but it is the English accent that gives you away.”

Lix laughed, pulling her camera up to her eye, “I’ll just have to work on that then. May I take your picture?” 

Flattered, the bartender slicked his hair back and struck a pose at the bar. Lix clicked off four shots quickly, then set the camera down. She dug a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her bag. The bartender flicked his lighter on for her. “You asked about our special Señorita, you should try the L’Oliveta. A good choice for an afternoon such as this.”

“Never heard of it. You have me curious. I’ll try one.” Lix smiled at him, took a drag on her cigarette, then leaned back surveying the small room behind her. Dark wainscoting ran halfway up the wall. A smattering of small round tables filled most of the space, with two or three larger rectangluar tables interspersed between them. There were a few couples and trios seated throughout, conversing in Spanish. In the far back of the room, secluded in shadow, a tall lanky man with his back to her was crouched over his moleskin notebook, scribbling furiously. His hair, a reddish-brown, wavy entity unto itself was bouncing about as he wrote. 

The bartender returned with a seltzer bottle, a lovely not-too-sweet vermouth, an orange, an ice bucket and some blue cheese stuffed olives. On the work counter just below the bar he sliced the orange in half, squeezing a bit of the juice into a thick diamond etched glass tumbler. He then sliced the peel into a thin spiral garnish and set it aside. After that he poured a generous amount of vermouth. He charged the seltzer bottle then handed it to Lix. “The honor is yours.”

Lix took the bottle, hefting it in her hands. “Good god, I’m likely to make a complete mess of it, but nada viene de la nada”

She turned her head slightly away from the glass, scrunching closed the eye nearest it for fear of the splash-back. She was about to push the handle when a deep voice sporting a Scottish accent said, “You are correct that nothing comes from nothing, but seltzer definitely comes from a seltzer bottle, and sometimes quite explosively. May I assist?”

It was the man she had spied in the corner, who had been writing in his moleskin notebook. She looked over her shoulder at him. His piercing, steely blue eyes twinkled under his wavy hair and bushy eyebrows. Lix assessed him quickly, a skill she had to hone as a single female reporting in dangerous locations, often traveling alone. The bartender interrupted her evaluation. “Ah, Señor Brown, the most expert hombre at wielding the seltzer bottle in all of Barcelona!”

“You do me too much justice Alfredo. I am a mere apprentice. Miss…?”

“Alexis Storm,” she said. “Please, you have at it. I’m afraid I’ll make a mess of it. Join me?” She motioned to the empty barstool next to her.

He slide onto it and extended his hands, asking for the seltzer bottle. Lix passed it to him and he re-positioned her glass, then adjusted it again, then tilted his head gauging some invisible measurement of distance that he seemed to be calculating in his head and then finally pulled the trigger. The fizzy water streamed out, hitting the side of the glass and swirling in a tight spiral with the vermouth. 

Alfredo exclaimed, “Perfecto!” then dropped the orange peel, a few ice chips and after skewering it with a long toothpick, the blue cheese filled olive. He shrugged and indicated Lix should try it, which she did. The tastes of the various ingredients mingled in a surprisingly refreshing and intriguing medley. It was sweet, but not cloyingly so. The olive and blue cheese mingled gently with the vermouth. It was sublime.

“Oh, that is delicious,” she declared. Her new-found companion smiled. He offered his hand to her, “I’m Randall Brown. It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Storm.” The way he rolled the “r” in her name sent a small shiver up her spine. His hand was soft but his grip strong. He motioned to the empty glass he had brought with him. “Another double, if you would Alfredo.” Alfredo moved over to the single malt Scotch selection behind the bar and brought a bottle of Glen Grant over and poured a generous amount into the glass, leaving the rest on the counter. “Para tu. I will put it on your tab” Alfredo excused himself to attend to another customer.

Lix turned her stool and raised her glass. “A toast Mr. Brown?”

“Only if you call me Randall,” he smiled at her.

“Only if you call me Lix,” she countered.

“Touche. Lix it is. What is your toast?”

“To a dab hand with the seltzer bottle and - it’s an old family toast, to better days.”

They clinked glasses and he looked over the top of his as he sipped his Scotch. He could hardly believe his luck to be sitting next to this captivating woman. He was not much of a ladies man, mostly absorbed in his work, chasing a story. He straightened his coaster, aligning it with the edge of the bar, then mentally scolded himself for fidgeting. “So, what brings you to Barcelona?”

“I’m here to cover the People’s Olympiad, but truth be told, I have a feeling that this is the right place to be, bigger things are brewing. It is a powder keg up north and I want to see what is going on here. One gets the sense that the news that reaches us in London is not telling the whole story. It must sound silly, I know…” 

Randall interrupted her before she could continue, “No, it’s not silly at all. That’s why I am here as well. I’m on special assignment from the BBC.” He tapped his moleskin with one of his long graceful fingers. 

Lix laughed at him, sipping her drink. “What are the odds of both of us being journalists, meeting here in an off-the-beaten track bar on the outskirts of Barcelona Mr. Br.. I mean Randall?”

“Indeed, it is serendipitous,” he replied, his eyes scanning her face.

They spent the rest of the afternoon talking. Lix intermittently snapped photos of the bar, its inhabitants and her newfound companion. They discussed Casa Almirall, Barcelona and Spain. Lix switched to Scotch and she and Randall emptied the rest of the bottle. Randall mostly listened. When he did speak it was to elucidate the political situation, in the city and further afield. Lix could tell he was entangled with the Spanish people far more deeply than she was, something she hoped to rectify.

“You should keep the lens cap on, you know. Dust is the enemy of a good photograph.” Randall observed as Lix delicately wiped the lens clean.

“I have a friend who says the same, but I rarely listen to him. Not my style.”

“Well, your style seems quite remarkable, so, I’ll relent, but only reluctantly.” But his quirks betrayed him as he moved the lens cap a fraction closer to the camera, and then unable to resist, affixed the cap over the lens.

When the sultry summer evening settled on the city outside, Lix glanced at her watch. “Randall, I have thoroughly enjoyed this, but I’ve lost track of time. It has been a long day and I should be getting back to my hotel. I’ve got an early morning, as I’d imagine you do as well. I’m not sure I’ll catch a cab though.” She craned her neck looking at the deserted street outside.

“I might be able to assist. Where are you staying?”

Lix didn’t even hesitate, which was saying something, because she would usually be more cautious giving her hotel information to a strange man in a strange city, but Lix Storm was a woman who trusted her gut, “I’m at the Majestic.”

“Splendid, so am I.” They smiled at each other, both pleased that they would most likely see each other again. “I’ve got a motorcycle outside. If you don’t mind riding behind me?” 

He looked at her expectantly. This was far more forward than he would usually be, but he sensed something about Lix. He hoped he was right. He could see her processing what he had just said, clicking through her options like aperture settings on a camera. He tried to gauge whether she was about to find a way to politely decline, but then to his immense relief a smile spread across her face.

“Why, yes, I think I should indeed like that,” she replied. 

He smiled back at her with a goofy lopsided grin and she decided she liked that as well. Randall walked her to the entrance and over to his Ariel Red Hunter. He took a moment to point out the exhaust, which could get quite hot and where Lix should place her feet to avoid a burn or getting her pant leg caught. She walked around the bike a moment admiring it. “Randall, this is gorgeous.” 

Randall thought to himself that he could say the same about her, but instead just told her, “Thank you.”

He threw a long leg over the bike and popped up the front and back parking stands. He jumped on the kick-start and the engine roared to life. Lix smiled and snubbed out her cigarette on the pavement. This was a far superior form of transport to a taxi. Randall motioned with his head for her to join him on the bike. Lix slung her camera over her shoulder and climbed on the back, careful to place her feet where Randall had shown her, then slid up toward him wrapping her arms around his waist. She liked the way her body fit against his, the way he smelt, the way he was beginning to make her feel. She couldn’t see his face, but if she had she would have seen him smiling contently. He shouted over his shoulder above the engine noise, “Ready to go Lix Storm?”

“I doubt I have ever been more ready Randall Brown,” she shouted back, nestling her head against his shoulder. Randall revved the engine and they sped off down the street. The memory faded to black in her mind as a noise in the waiting room crashed in on her dream.

A weary doctor emerged from the double doors of the surgery area. He looked out over the group assembled in the waiting room, “Mrs. Brown?” Lix jolted awake, “Yes! I mean no, not Mrs. Brown, but close enough.” 

The doctor looked quizzically at her, then shrugged. “Mr. Brown is out of surgery. There was arterial injury and fracture of the shoulder joint, both of which I believe we were able to repair. Time will tell. Mr. Brown lost a significant amount of blood, but is stabilized. We are moving him to his room. A nurse will be out shortly to take you to him. We are not out of the woods yet, but he did well in surgery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill Brandt is a real photographer and photojournalist. His eclectic story seemed to make him the perfect mentor for Lix. Some of his quotes are from a great website billbrandt.com. There is a fascinating video and you can buy his books and select prints. 
> 
> Also, Casa Almirall is a real place, still in existence in Barcelona. And after careful research (I'm willing to make sacrifices for the readers!) the signature drink L'Oliveta is indeed a refreshing and unusual summer beverage. I recommend using Dolin Rouge Vermouth de Chambery and don't chicken out on the blue cheese stuffed olive. 
> 
> I also totally picture Randall on a motorcycle, plus it would be damn handy in a civil war zone for a journalist. I'm picturing "Crow Road" Capaldi , with maybe slightly (barely) more tamed hair. If Randall was adventurous enough to buy a boat when his father died, I thought a motorcycle was not too far a stretch for the character.


	3. Through the Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Lix sits with Randall in the hospital, memories of Spain continue to occupy her dreams.  
> (Please note there is a short but graphic depiction of violence in this chapter)

A nurse took Lix up to the room. The policeman who had been watching over her in the lobby followed along, waiting respectfully in the hallway. It was a private room, almost all white except for a blue chair, with at least a bit more padding than the waiting room chairs had. Lix threw her purse down and waited by the window, looking out on the darkness of the night. A moment later they brought in Randall. Lix’s face softened upon seeing him. He was pale and unconscious but alive and oddly looked very peaceful. It dawned on her that the last time she had seen him look that serene was the morning after the first night they spent together in Barcelona. And while the horrors of the war occupied the biggest portion of her memories, there were pleasant ones intermingled with the bad. It was also a time when the highs and lows bore a much starker contrast. When both of them were less burdened by the weight of time and the history between them. 

Only once the nurses and doctors had left the room did Lix approach the bed. She reached out, clasping Randall’s hand in her’s. Blinking hard, she looked up at the ceiling, admonishing herself to hold it together. “Come Alexis,” she chided herself, “losing your composure over Randall Brown. Tsk. Tsk.” She pulled the chair over with the back of her leg, never letting go of Randall’s hand. Then she sat down, resting her head on the bed in the crook of her arm. Checking to make sure no one was around, she looked up at him.

“I know I told you that I didn’t want to revisit the past, and maybe that is still true. However, the future, well I never said anything about that, did I? You always were able to surprise me, and I expect you to do that again now. Surprise me Randall, get through this.You were the one who excelled at the whole “hope” thing. I don’t know that I can do “hope” without you. It never was my strong suit. I told you we have unfinished business. You know my temper, so you best come back to me and deal with it. You must have learned that leaving is not the best course of action. Don’t you dare leave me again.” Lix closed her eyes, her breathing slowed, still holding his hand, she drifted to sleep and back to memories of Spain.

Lleida, Spain in Catalonia in early February of 1937 found Lix and Randall and three other journalists on another journey far from the safety of Barcelona to attempt to find a battle zone. Fighting was sporadic, and while many were content to remain in the cities untouched by the insurgents, there were a cadre of photographers, journalists and people seeking to make a name for themselves, who spurned that approach. They worked their local sources, bribed their handlers, and did everything possible to find out where the tensions were likely to erupt next. Then it was the struggle to get their travel papers approved and find transport out to wherever the next story might be found. 

This town, on this day found them positioned in a narrow alley. Lix and Randall and a few other journalists, one of whom Lix had hitched a ride with were huddled at one end and five or six Republican fighters stood warily at the other. They were wedged between a cathedral, or what was left of it, and a bakery shop as the bombs started falling. The darkening early evening sky was dually illuminated by both the last light of the setting sun and the rising of a nearly full moon. A haze of dust and debris shrouded the town in a blanket of destruction. They had made the trip the day before on Lix’s urging after she got a tip that an offensive was to start, and it seemed the tip was correct. Lix joined the others in their rickety transport van, arriving the day before. Randall had followed on his Ariel, just arriving this morning. The Republican fighters at the other end of the alley, shuffled on their feet nervously, watching for Nationalist ground troops, but none were moving yet. They knew the bombing would continue and would not risk coming into the city proper, at least not yet.

The whirring drone of airplane propellors coming in for another bombing run grew louder. Everyone pushed against the walls, hoping the cathedral was sturdy enough to survive this new onslaught. Across the street, a family was huddled in an alcove in front of a shop. Their eyes darting up to the sky, concern and fear etched upon their upturned faces. Suddenly, a small boy broke free from his family’s grasp and darted into the street. Terrified, the child stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare, his hands over his ears, eyes scrunched tightly shut. He huddled into a little ball, rocking back and forth. A woman, it must have been his mother, ran after him, breaking free of her husband’s grip. The planes were much closer. The husband was calling for them to come back. After a moment of hesitation he too ran out, scooping up the boy, dragging his wife by the arm, his eyes darting around, looking for cover. The whistle of the first bombs started slicing through the air at the far end of the street. Through the lens of her camera, Lix saw the man lock eyes with her. He lowered the boy to the ground telling him and his wife to run for the alley. The family rushed toward her. Behind the trio the bombs began to impact, tearing apart the pavement of the street, and ripping through the storefronts. Lix was shooting non-stop, the images were as breathtaking as they were devastating. The man looked over his shoulder and then stumbled, falling to the pavement. The wife and son did not see him fall. Lix was about to call out, when Randall stepped in front of her.

Lix was furious. She tugged at his arm, but he shrugged her off and stretched out his arms, motioning for the mother and child to run faster, to run toward him. They did and dove into the alley as the last bomb blew a crater in the street just behind them where the father was trying to get to his feet. The explosives and shrapnel ripped through the fallen man’s body, tearing his flesh apart. Blood erupted from the wounds, his arm and part of his chest were torn asunder from his body. Randall bore witness to it all, but did not look away. Instead, he hugged the woman and child close to his chest, holding them tightly. Not letting them turn to see the mayhem behind them. Not letting them see the dead husband and father, laying bloodied and broken on the street behind them. 

Lix soon realized what he was doing. The planes departed, for now at least. She spied a sheet, dangling from a broken lamppost around the corner. Tugging it down, she went out and covered the body. The thin white fabric quickly turned red as it soaked up the blood of the body beneath its shroud. Turning to Randall, she saw a haunted look in his eyes, but he still managed to speak to the woman and the boy. His low baritone murmuring in his miserable broken Spanish, telling them not to look. Explaining, as gently as he could given that their world had just collapsed, that a husband and a father had just died. The woman looked at him, eyes glazed. She told him she wanted to see the body. She wanted to see what the Fascist scum had done. 

Randall motioned to Lix to come over to him. “Lix, she wants to see the body. She insists. But the boy…no child should see his father like that. I’ll keep him here with me if you…” He faltered, thinking he was asking too much. 

Lix squeezed his arm, then gently took the hand of this woman, this stranger who she was now intimately involved with, escorting her to see her deceased husband. The woman dropped to her knees next to the remains, crying out in despair. The boy struggled in Randall’s arms, pounded Randall’s chest with his fists, but Randall held him fast, continuing to speak to him, to try to calm him. Lix stood there, numbed by everything that had just transpired. She hesitated, fingering her camera. But her desire to capture what was going on was too strong to resist and she started clicking the shutter, advancing the film, switching angles, getting the images that would tell the story. She had to tell the truth of what was happening here. She had to show this pain, because otherwise no one would ever know. The world would continue on, outside the realm of this tragedy, and she knew with conviction that she had to make them see what was going on here. Then the sound of planes approaching became audible once more.

Randall looked up in alarm. The Republican soldiers called out to retreat, then scrambled out of sight. Lix tried to get the woman to leave, but she was not budging. Lix knelt down next to her, whispering in Spanish, “You must leave. Your son still lives. He has lost a father. He needs a mother.” The woman looked up at Lix then to her son and nodded. She removed her husband’s wedding ring from his bloodied hand and clutched it to her breast. Lix helped her to her feet, and then joined everyone as they dashed to the other end of the alley. Randall carried the child. 

The group skidded to a halt, checking around the corner before crossing the street. Some relatives of the woman and child joined them, and one of the men took the boy from Randall’s arms. He shouted, “Gracias Señor!” Then motioned for his group to run, heading off in the opposite direction.

The journalist with the van, Lix thought his name was Victor, pointed in the opposite direction. “The van is over this way. We need to get out of here.” Everyone started moving, except Randall. Lix noticed he wasn’t following them and stopped. He was just standing there, in the street watching the figures of the remnants of the Catalonian family recede. Lix stood next to him.

“Randall, we need to leave. There is nothing more we can do here.” She spoke softly, looking at his grief-stricken face.

“That’s just the thing, isn’t it? There is nothing we can do. That boy just lost his father. That woman just lost her husband. For what reason Lix? And we can do nothing.” 

She hadn’t known him very long, but she had never seen him this defeated. She thought carefully, aware of the approaching planes. She needed the right words to get him moving. “We can tell the story. We can tell the truth of it. Maybe change some hearts and minds. We can be their voice. But only if we get out of here.”

He looked over at her, his face puzzled, angry and pained. “But we cannot bring back that boy’s father can we? We cannot change the fact that this woman is a widow now. We are helpless to stop these atrocities.” 

Lix smiled ruefully, taking his hand in her’s. “No, Randall, there may be many things we cannot change, but we are not helpless. Our debt to these people is to make sure the world knows what tragedy befell them today. Nothing can undo what _has_ been done, but maybe we change what _will_ be done. If we die here it fixes nothing.”

He stared at her. “Lix Storm, you really are a very, remarkably, intelligent woman.” He squeezed her hand. Lix smiled back at him, then noticing the ever louder drone of the airplanes, tugged at him to turn around. “Randall, you are an equally remarkable man, but both of us are going to be very unremarkable in a moment if we don’t get moving. I think Victor or Hector, or whatever his name was, has left us and taken his van with him.”

“My bike’s just around the corner. Fancy another ride?” Randall asked raising his eyebrows with a shrug. Lix laughed. “You know I love that bike Randall”

They made a run for it, skidding around the corner. Randall had hidden the Ariel under a grimy tarp, which he flung off. He rolled it out into the street, started the engine and Lix jumped on the back seat, scooting up against him and making sure her camera was securely tucked inside her jacket. 

“Hang on, Lix! It’s going to be a wild ride!” He shouted above the engine and the airplanes and the bombs dropping. But in spite of all of that he was less forlorn. Somehow having Lix Storm nestled against him made the unbearable endurable.

“Just the way I like it Mr. Brown!” She yelled in his ear. She latched on tightly to him. He revved the engine, and fishtailed slightly as he raced the motorcycle down the street, turned off the main road and headed out into the countryside. 

They rode through the night. No sense in trying to talk with the engine noise, so they were silent. Randall drove mostly with the headlamp off, using the bright moonlight instead so as not to attract attention, or bullets until they were well distanced from the front. It demanded a level of concentration that helped push the recent tragic events out of his mind. They got back to Barcelona and the Hotel Majestic just before midnight. They were dirty, thirsty, hungry, emotionally drained and physically exhausted when they arrived. Lix extracted herself from the bike. She shook out her hair, and rubbed her arms, trying to work out the soreness accumulated over the long drive. Randall walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. 

“May I?” he asked. His voice was gravelly in her ear.

Lix slide her jacket partway down her arms and tilted her head forward, exposing her neck and shoulders to him. “Yes, you may,” she said quietly.

His long fingers, possessing an unexpected strength, began slowly and methodically kneading the sore muscles. It was like he knew each spot that was troubling her, like he had a map to her pains. He moved his hand across her neck sending a shiver up her spine. She leaned back into his arms. “Let’s get a drink,” she implored letting him encircle her in his embrace.

“Yes, let’s do that.” He tilted his head down and kissed the soft skin at the base of her neck. She smiled and turned into his arms. Placing her hands on his chest, she tilted her head to reach his mouth. The kiss was slow and quiet on the outside but a cacophony of light and sound inside of their minds. “A drink Mr. Brown, and then perhaps a nightcap as well,” she muttered releasing his lips slightly. 

“I’d like that very much Miss Storm. Very much indeed.” 

They separated, and holding hands they entered the hotel. Lix excused herself to freshen up a bit. Randall went into the bar and after exchanging the latest news with several other journalists who had been in other areas of the country, he went to the barman, procuring a bowl of olives, a bottle of Scotch and a bottle of Tondonia 1934 red wine and some glasses. He found a small table in a dark corner of the room and poured a tall glass of Scotch, which he tilted back in one go. After snacking on a few olives, he refilled his glass, and drained it again in short order.

Lix returned and squinted into the darkness as her eyes adjusted, until she spotted Randall. She turned every head in the bar as she walked a beeline toward him. She had pulled her hair back and changed into a tantalizingly clingy silk shirt. One of the guys at the bar tilted his glass to Randall. He smiled as she approached him, then rose to pull her chair out and whispered in her ear, “You look lovely Miss Storm. I’m afraid you will have to put up with a rather less polished and infinitely dustier companion.”

She sat down crossing her legs and set her cigarettes on the table. “I think I can manage with that for tonight, just don't go making a habit of it.” He lit her cigarette and pulled one for himself from his jacket pocket before shaking off the dusty coat and slinging it across the back of his chair.

“Wasn’t sure if you wanted wine or Scotch, so I got us both.” He smiled a shy smile and motioned gracefully with his hand at the selection on the table. Lix smiled back at him. “Well, let me see… eenie meenie miney mo… I’ll start with the Scotch.”

“An excellent choice.” He poured her glass, refreshed his own again, and then leaned in across the table, taking her hand. “I am glad you were there with me today. Not that I’m glad that you had to live through everything, through all of the…” His voice tapered off, but Lix let the silence settle between them. After a few minutes, he spoke again, “I am glad I didn’t have to face that alone.”

“As am I,” Lix said, rubbing her hand across his knuckles. “What you did for that woman and child today…it meant something Randall. It meant so much to them. Even if they don’t realize it now, they will. You did a good thing on a terrible day.”

“Here’s to the end of a terrible day,” he toasted. Their glasses tapped together, they both downed the contents. Lix closed her eyes as the alcohol burned down her throat. It felt good. It felt cleansing. She thumped her empty down on the table. They both took a drag from their cigarettes, observing each other through the exhaled smoke.

“I think another is in order, yes?” she asked him, coyly, glancing at her empty glass.

“Who am I to argue with a woman of such a confident disposition?” he smiled at her. His normally tightly wound persona loosened as the drink seared his mind, cauterizing the wounds of the day.

After a while, when the Scotch was pretty well emptied, the bartender turned on the radio. After a few commercials finished, “The Way You Look Tonight” came on. Lix grinned a somewhat wobbly grin. “I love this song. Let’s dance”

Randall looked at her quite alarmed. Dancing was not his strong suit. But the Scotch, and the pain of the day, and the woman staring expectantly at him emboldened him. He rose pushing aside a couple of tables and a few chairs. He carefully arranged them in an immaculately neat row, to open up a bit of space. “Shall we dance then?” he extended his hand to her. Lix smiled and let him guide her out of her chair. Randall pulled her against him and placed his hand in the small of her back. He hummed along with the tune, the reverberations in his chest thrummed in her ear. He rubbed one of his fingers along her spine and she sank further into his embrace. The song ended but they just stood there reluctant to disengage. Someone over at the bar shouted, “Get a room, for god’s sake!” 

Randall laughed and separated enough from Lix that he could look down at her face. “You did mention a nightcap earlier.” He raised his eyebrows and glanced over at the untouched bottle of wine on the table. “And we shouldn’t let that fine vintage be stranded alone tonight, should we?”

Lix moved her hand from his shoulder and traced a finger down the side of his face, trailing to the stubble along his chin. He inhaled sharply at her touch. She smiled at the effect she was having on him. “Mr. Brown, I’d hazard that nothing should be stranded alone tonight. I don’t renege on my offers. If a nightcap has been offered, a nightcap shall be had.” She pulled away slightly, immediately missing the close contact. He hurriedly grabbed his jacket, the bottle and the two glasses. “Lead on Miss Storm.” 


	4. Mirrors to the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through memories of a particular battle in Spain, the identity of the assailant is revealed.  
> (Please note there is a short but graphic depiction of violence in this chapter)

Randall stirred, caught up in his own memory or a nightmare, or both. Lix raised her head slightly from his arm at the movement, immediately regretting her chosen position for sleep as her back and neck protested with painful alarms. Although Randall’s eyes were still shut, he was speaking. It took Lix a moment to catch his words. Like her, his dreams were filled with reliving those days and nights in Spain. He was calling out Gerda’s name. 

Gerda Taro was a journalist reporting on the Spanish Civil War along with Randall and Lix and many others. A red-haired firebrand, she and Lix had been on-and-off friends for years and often travelled to the front together. The end for Gerda was on July 26th, 1937 in Brunete. She and Ted Allan were trapped in a foxhole, bombs falling all around them. Taro had held her arms high above her. She grasped the camera tightly and continued to click the shutter. Manically, she advanced the film, blindly capturing the scenes of chaos and carnage around her. Ted had tried to block the rocks and shrapnel whistling around them by shielding her with his film camera - the bulk of the equipment serving as a shield while she continued to photograph. The Republican troops signaled retreat and started to pull back. Taro and Allan ran from the foxhole and both jumped on the running board of a passing car that had slowed enough to pick them up.

Randall, Lix and Herbert Matthews had been pinned in a building across the street while planes strafed the retreating convoy. Unseen by the driver of the car, a Republican tank around the corner had been hit and now driverless, was careening out of control. The trio tried to warn them, but the noise of the incessant machine gun fire from the planes drowned out their collective screamed warnings. Randall had screamed so loudly that he lost his voice for the next two days. The car Ted and Gerda clung to screeched around the corner and was immediately struck by the tank. They were thrown violently from the running board into the dirt. Gerda’s head smashed against the rubble. Although they were transported to nearby field hospital, Taro succumbed to her injuries and died early the next morning. She was only twenty-six years old. When Lix got there, her friend had already passed away. The duty nurse told her that Taro’s last words were, “Did they take care of my camera?” Lix wondered if her last words would be the same. It could easily have been her and Randall in that foxhole. 

Lix rose and released Randall’s left arm from her’s. Once it was freed, he attempted to go through his compulsive motions of smoothing his tie in his sleep, even though he wasn’t wearing one. Lix reached up and grabbed his hand as it blindly searched for his nonexistent tie. She quietly whispered “shush” in his ear and placed her finger over his lips. He gradually stilled and then slowly half-opened his eyes. His breathing slowed from its accelerated nightmare pace. He blinked, confused as to where he was. He tilted his head, and Lix let the finger she had placed on his lips, drift down, caressing his chin. He smiled at her and groggily said, “Have I died? Died and gone to heaven?” 

“No, you are most certainly not dead! Why would you say that Randall?

“I’ve awoken with Lix Storm somewhat in bed with me, holding my hand. If that isn’t heaven, then I don’t know what is.” He said it quietly, closing his eyes, and shifting against the pain in his shoulder.

Lix rolled her eyes. “Good grief Randall,” she admonished him. “You…are very much alive. And thank god for that, because your foolish heroics could have killed you and I…well, I, I don’t think I could bear that.”

He held her hand close against his chest. “Neither could I,” he joked. But when he started to chuckle at his dark humor, he grimaced.

“You are in pain,” Lix observed, then rose to get a nurse. After checking him, the nurse administered some morphine and updated his chart, then left the room. As the drug took effect Randall relaxed back into the bed. Lix decided she needed to get home, clean herself up and get something to eat. She fussed a bit with the blankets, then leaned down to his ear. “I’m going to get a change of clothes. I’ll be back later.”

Randall grunted, the pain meds kicking in, but then roused himself, struggling to get his eyes opened, “Lix…important…need to find out who the shooter was…Spain… Lix, he was Spanish.”

Lix thought he must be muddled by the drug and still thinking of his nightmare, “Spanish? What do you mean Randall? How on earth could you know that?”

“He had a Mauser K98k rifle… Bolt handle… was bent down. Plus…his cap…he wore a Nationalist officer side cap…” Randall was starting to slur his words as he tried to fight the pain medication.

Lix stopped. She knew Randall’s powers of observation were impeccable. And if he was correct, well, she admitted to herself, he most certainly was correct, it meant the past was coming back to haunt them. But why, and who was behind the attack?

“Lix…my office…bottom desk drawer…my journals…we need to find out…who…” He finally could not fight it anymore and lapsed into sleep. 

Lix pondered his admonishment. The fact that he was inviting her to read his journals was a sign of how worried he was. He had never let anyone, not even her read them. She gathered her purse. The officer at the end of the hallway intercepted her as she approached the elevator. 

“Miss Storm, I am Detective Constable Witherspoon and I am to escort you. We believe you are still in danger.” Lix did a double take, then thinking back to what Randall had said, decided that discretion was the better part of valor. 

“Very well, but do keep up. I have quite a bit of work to do.” Lix catalogued her agenda - home to freshen up, then to the office, she wanted to develop the film she had shot yesterday before the attack, maybe she caught the assailant in one of the shots of she had taken. The officer raised his eyebrows, but fell in step with her.

After a quick stop at home Lix was still tired but at least refreshed a bit. Especially since she had changed out of the blood-stained clothing. She had thrown it away knowing the garments were ruined and would never come clean. She locked her apartment and gathered “her shadow” as she took to calling the officer who accompanied her. He drove her into the BBC News offices and fell in step behind her as she entered the lobby. She absentmindedly ran her hand across the neatly arranged silver thumbtacks, like a talisman. The receptionist saw her enter and called out to her, “Is Mr. Brown going to be all right?”

“I think so dear. It’s kind of you to ask.”

“Well, this will sound strange, but I missed him this morning. The chairs were crooked,” she pointed to the lobby seating, “and I couldn’t bear it. I actually got up and aligned them. Funny how something can latch on, even if it is irritating, then when it is gone, you suddenly find that you miss it.”

Lix smiled a knowing smile, “Oh, you really don’t know the half of it darling. I’m sure Mr. Brown will appreciate your attentiveness.”

Once up the elevator she dispensed with her quick, repetitive updates to the various members of the team. And while she wanted to connect with everyone, she was more focused on Randall’s warning and figuring out who was behind the attack. Lix ditched her jacket and attache and took her camera into the darkroom. Her shadow lingered outside the door, just as well, he could make sure no one opened it. As she closed the door behind her, she sighed and leaned against the table, the last twenty-four hours catching up with her. Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself up and turned to the comfort of a familiar routine - developing her film. 

First she mixed the developer and some water, then prepped the stop bath and finally the fixer in their various beakers. With a quick flick of the switch, she turned off the lights and opened the film canister. Then she cut the spindle free, evened off the end and loaded it onto the developing reel. Lix gently set the reel into the developing tank, sealed it and turned the light back on. She checked the temperature of the developer and added the proper amount to the tank. The next step was the rhythmic quarter turn and tilt agitations. Then she emptied the developer and poured in the stop bath, following the same agitation process. Then came the fixer and finishing up a quick water wash in the sink. Grabbing a handful of clothespins she hung the film, used a chamois cloth to wipe off the excess water, clipped another clothespin at the bottom to tension it and cleaned up the darkroom. The detailed, meticulous process helped to calm her mind. She laughed at herself, thinking how it mirrored Randall’s quirks. “Good god, I’m starting to think like him,” she thought as she exited the room. She’d have at least two hours before she could make prints. 

“All done Miss Storm?” asked Witherspoon.

“For the moment detective, now we have a few hours of waiting. Mr. Brown has a hunch and I need to do some research in his office.”

“Lead on Miss Storm. Where you go, I go.” Witherspoon smiled at her and extended his arm indicating she should lead the way.

Lix entered Randall’s office and went to his desk opening the bottom desk drawer. There they were, black moleskins, stacked neatly in chronological order. Each had a small white label on the cover with the dates written in Randall’s tight precise script. Lix opened the one from 1936 and found it to be the very same journal she had seen him scribbling in when she met him that first time at the Casa Almirall. His writing was evocative, and he had a youthful intensity. His writing later on was tighter, more practiced, still with his characteristic fieriness but with the edges blunted slightly. She skimmed through, then stopped, chuckling to herself. He had written a description of her. He must have made this entry just before he came over to help her with the seltzer.

 _Woman at the bar is utterly captivating. Never have seen anyone like her. Mustn’t be daft. Try to keep my composure. She’s like a cool breeze sweeping away the oppressive heat of this summer day._

Lix traced her hand over the words he had written so many years ago. Then shaking her head, she gently put that one back. She was looking for a time period when she and Randall would have been around Nationalist troops. Lix had often dragged Randall with her, attempting to get to the front first; to get the scoop. “First in, last out,” that was what Randall had observed about her, and it was true. She remembered one incident, it would have been in 1937, early September, when she, Randall and several other photojournalists had travelled with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, known as the “Lincolns”. These men were the Americans who participated in the International Brigades fighting with the Republican troops in Spain. Lix lit a cigarette and settled into Randall’s chair, thumbing through the journal from that time period. The first engagement they had covered was in Quinto. Lix remembered the hours right after the battle when the Republican troops were moving toward Zaragoza. She and Randall had joined up with the 15th International Brigade’s official photographer, Harry Wayland Randall. Lix took to calling them “The Randalls”. The Randalls covering The Lincolns, they had all laughed at the ridiculousness of it. Harry had taken them to the bombed out building that was being used for a field hospital. Lix had an easy time getting the men to talk to her, snapping photos when she could with Randall and Harry following along. Reading through Randall’s notes, she caught a thread that seemed promising and that stirred her memory.

There had been a rumor, one of the badly injured Lincolns had told them, about a man they called “The Butcher” or in Spanish “El Asesino”. He was known for executing prisoners by slitting their throats. Then he would select two or three other prisoners who had witnessed his brutality, He would mark them with a deep cut “X” at the base of their neck, and then send them, bleeding and in shock, out to spread the word that is was better to run away, than to face him. Randall and Lix continued to hear about this sadistic man and became determined to put a name and a face to him, to expose his atrocities to the world and maybe, help put a stop to him. They knew scant little about him though. He was definitely a fascist. He was definitely from Germany, his accent gave him away to the witnesses that lived to tell the tale. But the trail always seemed to run cold. He was well protected. Then came the battle Belchite. Lix and The Randalls had covered the drawn-out door-to-door fighting in the city. The Lincolns suffered heavy casualties but succeeded in taking the town.

Lix had split off from the Randalls and other journalists. They were following the battalion as they moved onto a new street at the edge of town and began the slow and deadly process of clearing it. Her camera had jammed and she needed somewhere out of the immediate battle-zone to repair it. Lix headed toward a small farmhouse a few hundred yards away from the street. She found the barn doors open and spied a small table and stool in the corner and she settled into her work. She had just finished fixing her Leica, when she heard a commotion outside. She was exposed and alone and decided to hide in the upper level haystacks until she figured out what was going on. She scrambled up the ladder and then pulled it up after her. Then she dug herself into a mound of hay, leaving enough of a gap that she could observe or snap a picture of the open area beneath her if she wanted.

She watched Nationalist troops bring in three prisoners. They tied two of them to posts facing the center of the barn. The third man had a burlap sack over his head. His hands were tied behind his back. He stood, fidgeting uncertainly, snapping his head in the direction of any noise. The Nationalist troops hung back as an imposing figure, tall, slightly overweight, dressed in black strode into the barn with a machete that glinted in the afternoon sunlight. Lix froze. He must be The Butcher. His cap was angled to the right. His buzz cut hair, barely visible. He had a crooked mouth that was drawn into a tight grimace that she supposed was his way of presenting a smile. His hooked nose matched the beak of the bird that his jacket insignia for the Condor Legion was named after. She now knew what he looked like. But it was too quiet in the barn. If she snapped a photo, they would hear her. She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. She had to wait. And waiting meant watching an execution. She thought to close her eyes, to spare herself actually seeing this, but she silently chastised herself. A man was about to die. She had only one thing she could do and that was to bear witness. She would not be derelict in that duty. Lix Storm watched.

The Butcher picked up an axe that was leaning up against a post in the barn. Speaking in Spanish but with a German accent, he shouted profanities as he circled the man. Suddenly he swung the axe, hitting the man in one of his knee-caps. He fell, screaming. Blood seeping out onto the ground, a preview of more to come. The Butcher told the guards to grab the man on either side. They hauled him halfway up, the man’s gasping sobs filling the barn. The Butcher went around back, pulled the burlap sack off of his head and whispered something in his victim’s ear and then, grabbed his hair and quickly slit his throat. Lix bit down on the fabric of her jacket to squelch the sobs building up in her chest. The Butcher then marked the other two men with his monstrous cuts, and releasing their bonds, screamed at them, mocking them by clucking like a chicken. The men ran off through the fields, grabbing at their necks, blood streaming across the dirt and grass in their wake. The Butcher laughed, then fell silent. For a moment only the sound of birds and insects filled the barn, then the distant sound of planes moving closer subsumed the killing ground. The Butcher and his troops looked out the barn-door and decided that a quick exit would be the best course of action. His lackeys went to get their vehicle. The planes were getting quite loud and when the Butcher turned one last time to look at his handiwork, Lix decided to risk the picture, hoping the noise of the planes would mask the sound of her camera. She framed it, focused, trying to still her shaking arms, she clicked the shutter.

The Butcher heard it. His head snapped up, trying to find the source, but Lix had stuffed herself back into the haystack. He took one step into the barn, but then the planes started a strafing run. His troops pulled a transport truck up to the entrance. With a hesitant look back, The Butcher decided to flee. He jumped in the truck and the death squad sped away, their vehicle kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Lix breathed, gulping in air, sobbing, shaking. When one of the plane’s bullets ripped through the barn, Lix did not move. She just sat there in the hay. Mercifully the bullets missed her, striking nearby, but not hitting her. She sank into the haystack, the dry stems poking into her skin, the pain reminding her that she was still alive. She heard a motorcycle and started to re-hide herself, but when the bike stopped in front of the barn, she saw it was Randall.

He got off the bike warily, his lithe figure turning around, then he looked up, searching the sky to make sure the planes were not coming back. Seeing they were not, he turned his focus to the blood on the ground. His eyes traced the blood into the barn and he slowly entered. Hesitantly, he stared at the corpse, fearing at first that it was Lix, but then quickly realized it was not her. He looked around, whispering her name, “Lix? Oh god, Lix. Please tell me you are all right.” He started to sound slightly panicked.

Lix called down to him. “Up here Randall. I’m…” She was going to say fine, however she was anything but fine.

Randall started at her voice, then looking up, he said flatly. “I was looking for you. Someone said you had gone to the barn, then I saw the planes open fire…I thought…” Looking back down at the body he asked, “What happened here?”

Lix wiped her tears on her coat sleeve, then lowered the ladder and clambered down. He took her in his arms, shielding her view of the body. She sniffled a bit, but then straightened. She had already begun erecting her mental barriers. “The Butcher happened. And I saw him Randall. I know what he looks like and I got a picture, not just my memory, a photograph. He didn’t see me though…at least I don’t think he did. I saw him…” She glanced down at the brutalized body. “I saw him kill this man.” 

Randall held her close to him. “Lix, let’s get out of here. We need to get that film developed and into the hands of people who can do something about it.”

They solemnly left the barn. Once again Lix sat behind Randall on his motorcycle. This time though, she clung to him more tightly than she ever had before. They made it back to Barcelona. He took Lix up to his room, wrapped her in a blanket, gave her some food, and bottle of his best Scotch from his private stash and told her to wait for him. She didn’t argue, which worried him more than anything. He developed the film for her, sent out his dispatch and forwarded the prints to a contact in a Republican guerrilla unit. He hoped that one of them would catch The Butcher and put him out of business for good. 

Once he had completed all of these necessary tasks, Randall returned to his room. Lix had made a dent in the Scotch, but the last glass she had poured sat untouched. She was wrapped in a blanket, huddled in a chair, staring out the window. He closed the door gently and quietly walked up behind her, delicately placing his hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him. Her face was sad and questioning. He had no answers for her. He had no explanation for why such people existed. He moved his hand down her arm until it reached her hand. His fingers caressed hers. He tried to use touch to express what words could not. He gently pulled her to stand next to him. He took the blanket off of her and then caressed her face between his hands, his thumbs traced the lines of her cheekbones. He kissed her.

Lix wrapped her arms around his neck. She stared up at him, her eyes dry, but rimmed red, and said to him, “Make love to me Randall. Show me that there is still love in this terrible world.”

Randall kissed her again, more passionately this time. He guided her to his bed. He methodically undressed her and then himself. They made love throughout that night, and it was the most sublime sex she ever had. She was quite certain that was the night when she became pregnant with Sophia. 

As Lix read through Randall’s diary, seeing his memories of this time, she sighed with the weight of the words.

_Dispatch- September 10, 1937:_

_The Butcher, a brutal man who hid the atrocities he committed in the shadows of anonymity has been unmasked today. His reign of terror hopefully is soon to end, with the revelation of his face. These types of barbarians flourish in the shadows. The Butcher cuts down lives he deems unworthy, not during the course of battle, but after the battle has ceased. His hatred and prejudice motivates his sadistic murders. There are many more like him. And we, as civilized peoples, regardless of country or affiliation have a duty to prosecute the atrocities he and his kind commit. Today a light has shone into the dark recesses where this creature lives…_

Randall’s dispatch continued, a brilliant piece of journalism, calling out a warning against fascism, not just in Spain, but the stain of it that was spreading through Europe. Building a case that The Butcher was just one of many. Urging the world to take action against the hatred and fanaticism that empowered disgruntled, disenfranchised people to become monsters. He credited Lix as a co-author of the piece and had put her name in the byline. He then had drawn a series of perfectly spaced, perfectly straight lines, to delineate his dispatch from some of his private thoughts.

_Would that I had witnessed this atrocity rather than Lix. I would have killed him or tried to, and done so gladly. I would also, most likely be dead. But that would be a small price to pay to keep this memory from soiling Lix’s mind. She would probably reprimand me, pointing out that she is strong enough to deal with it, and she would be right. She is the strongest woman I have ever met. But no one, no matter how strong could not be affected. The more I know Alexis Storm, the more I fear her and fear for her. I fear her courage is too reckless. I fear her passion is too strong. I fear the intensity of my feelings for her are too… fierce, too fervent for me to control. Never before have I felt this way, and perhaps I never will again. I fear that I am not the right man for her, a Glaswegian bloke trying to keep pace with an aristocratic fire-storm. And then there is my deception, my dishonesty, about my engagement, though I no longer want to honor it. I sense Lix will always find me wanting, and perhaps with good reason. She is a fire and I am gasoline, pouring myself on her gladly, only to evaporate within the dancing of her flames._

Lix realized she was holding her breath and let it out slowly, closing her eyes with a sadness that encapsulated all of the years that had passed and all of the regrets now entangled in their memories. She gently closed the journal. About eight weeks after Randall had written these notes, when the morning sickness set in and Lix knew she was pregnant, she found out that fear would win the battle in Randall’s mind. Lix closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. He was so exasperating. She would not have found him wanting, but he never gave her the chance. Then again, maybe she never opened up enough to give him one. Even back then he would hurl himself into danger on her behalf, but never see himself as she saw him. Now he was at it again. While he had his share of failure, he was so very often right, but also so very often reckless, just the same as he had pegged her. Lix knew that she needed to find out what had happened to The Butcher. Their lives depended on it. She checked her watch, then called out to her shadow, who had nodded off on Randall’s couch. Two hours were up. Time to print her negatives and see if her hunch was correct.

  


  


  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The historic nuggets in this chapter:  
> 1\. Gerda Taro did die in Brunete. I can totally see her and Lix hanging out together. I would not be surprised if some elements of Lix's character were drawn from Gerda among a few other notable female journalists of the era.  
> 2\. The "Lincolns" and Harry Wayland Randall are real. I could not resist calling them "The Randalls". And anyone covering the Spanish Civil War (SCW) would have encountered them.  
> 3\. Belchite was a battle in the SCW and did involve the Lincolns and brutal door-to-door fighting.  
> 4\. The Condor Legion was a group of German soldiers who fought on with Franco's troops on the Nationalist side of the SCW.
> 
> The Butcher is fictitious, but I wanted to create a character who would encapsulate the worst of the rising Nazi's. The Condor Legion in Spain was really a boot-camp exercise for the eventual start of WWII.


	5. No Good in Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lix confesses her pregnancy to Randall.

In late October of 1937 all of Northern Spain fell and Lix Storm knew she was pregnant. She had missed two periods in a row. Lix, though loath to admit it, resented the unborn child. She resented the way it made her have to be careful now. “Careful” was not a word she had overly familiarized herself with up to this point. She was her work. That was the one thing that defined her. She just was not ready to give it all up and settle down. And then there was the father. He was her distraction in Spain whom she had recently been treating like an unwanted stray dog. Not because he deserved it but because she was taking out her frustration on him. She dreaded this conversation, so it was easier to treat him poorly, push him away than it was to imagine a settled life of marriage and child rearing. Although if she were to be honest with herself, she knew full well that she eventually would have to tell him. And whatever they were… because whenever she tried to come up with a definition of their relationship, it eluded her. Whatever they had once been had changed into something else. And the “something else” they now were was infinitely different from the whatever they had been. It was no longer a convenient game played with sex and booze and danger. Now it was a man and a woman and an unplanned child. 

At the beginning of December, when the Nationalists started to bomb Barcelona, she resolved to tell him. Her body was changing and she would not be able to hide her pregnancy much longer. She had been distancing herself from him, which was easy for her, since he would never press her. But she knew that he was curious, concerned even. The Lix Storm he knew would usually initiate their trysts, usually quite vehemently. That had not been happening lately. He noticed, but was too taciturn to say anything.

They had just concluded a rather boring day of interviewing the Republican government officials about the Nationalist bombings and the implications for the city. There was the hint of the cracking along the edges. The tang of fear, unspoken, but felt. But there was a plan. A plan to start an offensive, and for now that was everyone’s focus. The journalists from various agencies, countries and newspapers or radio outlets, filed off to draft their dispatches. Randall had cornered a junior minister in an alcove. Randall always excelled at working sources close enough to the top to help him break a story, but not so high up as too attract attention. The two men shook hands and Randall turned to leave. He stopped when he saw Lix watching him. He could not place the look she was giving him. 

“Miss Storm. You seem to be waiting on me.” He approached her cautiously. She had been acting oddly in recent weeks. And although he could never say that he had a firm grasp on the ebbs and flows of the psyche of Lix Storm, he thought he knew her well enough to spot that something was out of sorts.

“Yes, I am. Randall, we need to talk. Let’s…” She looked around their current location and it was not an ideal spot. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Randall nodded and indicated that she should lead the way. Lix took them to the London Bar, which was just around the corner. She let Randall get them drinks while she lit a cigarette and braced herself for the conversation to come. He returned, placed two glasses of wine on the table, then sat down across from her. He thought about lighting his own cigarette, but instead just flipped his lighter between his fingers. Flip, rotate…flip, rotate…his movements filled the silence between them.

“You said we need to talk Lix. Silence isn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind.”

“Randall…there is no easy way to say this, so I’ll just let out with it. I am pregnant.” She thought about taking a long drag off her cigarette and a substantial sip of her drink, but instead just stared at the smoke swirling around her fingertips. These were yet another set of compromises she made to her pregnancy.

Randall stopped turning the lighter. His face was an unfathomable mask. His lack of nervous motion was more irritating than his normal obsessive routines. Eventually, he spoke, “Lix, I…am… am I to understand that I am the father?” He asked the question slowly, uncharacteristically stumbling over the words.

Lix laughed a bitter laugh. “There are no other candidates, and I’ll refrain from criticizing your inability to form a a coherent sentence - a craft you have chosen as a career I might add. Don’t be daft. I know I might flirt, but you are the only…” She stumbled here, again not knowing how to categorize him; unable to let down the barriers to tell him that he was the only man she had slept with in Spain. He was the only man to whom she had ever really opened her heart. 

Randall looked up at her, a variety of emotions flitting across his distinct features. He decided he definitely needed a cigarette and lit one with a not too steady hand. “Lix…I…” He smiled awkwardly, then his smile crumbled into a frown. “You’ll go home then, to have the baby I mean?”

This was not exactly what Lix was expecting as a response, but it was Randall, so she admitted to herself that it would be foolish to ever try to guess where his thoughts were taking him.

“I hadn’t really thought…” Lix started off calmly, but then as she mulled over his response, became progressively more angry. “Oh, for the love of god Randall. Why are you even asking me that? Is that what you want? Is that who you think I am? The woman who gets knocked up, then rushes home, unmarried to her parents.” Lix glared at him, incredulous.

Randall closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Lix, we…I…I need to tell you something, I’d hoped to tell you…I’ve been trying to find a time to tell you.” 

“Tell me what Randall?”

“Lix, I’m engaged. I have been for four years. I suppose the dangerous assignments are just a way of running from it. I don’t love her. It’s basically an arranged engagement. And then you happened. And I know I need to do something, but…” He downed the Scotch in a gulp, then grabbed his coat. “I need to walk. I need some time to think.” He tapered off into an awkward silence.

Lix took a moment, staring at the tablecloth, trying to keep breathing while the seething shock and hurt and anger boiled up within her. After a moment, when she had controlled it, at least somewhat, she lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. “If you leave me now, know that you are leaving me for good.”

“Lix, I just need some time, this… I…” He began fidgeting with his tie.

“Get out Randall. Just get the hell out of here.”

He looked at her like she was a shooting star receding into the night sky. Once so bright, glowing with a light that hurt your eyes, but now fading, and fast. He was losing her and he was not brave enough to stop it. He got up, gathering his coat and hat. “Of course Lix. We can talk…maybe later…”

She spoke with a fury that made him step back a pace. “Don’t just get out of the bar, Randall. Get out of Spain. Get as far away from me as you can.”

Randall fidgeted with the edge of his coat, started to speak several times, but said nothing. After the silence weighed down mixing with the cold air and the cigarette smoke, he finally said, “I’ll do whatever you want Lix.” But Lix saw his eyes darting around, knew he was just saying something to quell the emotions roiling within him at this moment.

“No, Randall, no you won’t. Because you don’t know what I want.” After a pause, she quietly added, “And quite frankly neither do I.”

She wished more than anything that he would have ignored her and taken her in his arms and told her he would stay and to hell with her asking him to leave. But she was not a woman who invited coddling, while he most definitely was the man who had always given her words a weight that others did not. And those would not be the actions of a man that she could come to love…who she had come to love. And at that moment, perhaps the worst moment of all, she had to admit that she loved him. Somehow over the days and nights of living through this hellacious civil war, she had let him get to her. And now she was chastising herself for that. She could not say what she thought their future together would have been, but she had opened her heart to a future of some kind. And now that ambiguous future was taken from her. She was angry. Angry at him, but even more so with herself. She had let her guard down with disastrous results. She put her head in her hand, fighting back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. When she looked up, he was gone. He had followed her instructions. 

It was the last she saw of him until he came back to London; Head of News for The Hour. Oh, he had tried to find her several times in those first weeks after she pushed him away, but Lix Storm was good at running and she moved around enough to stay a few steps ahead of him. She took off for Granada, just as he left for Paris. He had left Spain following her instructions. He abandoned his heartfelt duty to finish reporting this war because she had told him to do so. He arranged for a friend to deliver a packet with an engagement ring and a note, “I’m sorry. Lix, please, let’s talk.” Lix never responded, but put the ring on a chain that she wore around her neck to this day. As hardened as her heart was, it thawed a bit over the months and years that followed. It thawed enough that she resolved to give him some information about their child - a girl, her name was Sophia. She kept in touch with him via messages passed along by friends of friends. She kept tabs on him, so she knew where he was and what, at least superficially, he was doing. She made it through the rest of her pregnancy alone. She gave birth at a convent in Barcelona. She registered the child…their child, there. Lix tried to manage a baby and being a photojournalist covering a civil war, but it was not a situation conducive to child care. And she knew that she was not the kind of woman to make a good mother. 

It was near the end of the war, in Madrid, when she finally had to admit she could not manage both career and motherhood, by herself, in a war zone. She had left Sophia in the care of a nanny she had paid to help her. The city was falling to the Nationalists. She remembered the exact moment when she decided that she needed to give up the child. It was the day when she took a picture of a woman outside of a flat. It was a picture filled with sadness, the cause of which the camera did not capture. The hidden event behind the closed door of the flat was the ringing of the bullets as the men inside, one of whom was undoubtably that woman’s husband, were summarily executed. A family was being torn apart. She never even stopped to consider it, so intent was she on capturing the moment; so shielded was she by that damn camera lens. She had run out of film, almost didn’t get the shot, but she did and she was damn proud of it. She kept a print of it behind her desk. But the flat where that picture was taken was less than a block away from where she left Sophia. Lix Storm, first in, last out, had endangered her daughter, and had done so without a thought. It was time to get out. The inevitable fall of the Republic approached and the impending rise to power of the fascists loomed on the near horizon. It was time to get both Sophia and herself out of Spain. Her first destination was Paris, which she lied to herself about. She lied when she convinced herself that her choice of destination had nothing to do with Randall. She lied to herself when she had waited, hidden around a corner from The Paris Bureau to catch a glimpse of him, not sure what she would have done had she seen him. But she needn’t have bothered. Randall was off in various exotic locales; in Africa, Europe and the Middle East, chasing the rise of fascism and the heavy aura of tragedy about to take over everyone, everywhere. And although she might have guessed, but never knew, he was also running. He ran from the pain and was driven by guilt. He had always been a drinker, but now his drinking was consuming him, and he was subsuming himself to it.

Lix eventually found a couple in France to adopt Sophia. She had gone several times. Taking the hour long drive out to Chartres to meet the Marfrand’s. The final trip, which Lix would return from alone, occurred on a bright sunny spring afternoon. Sophia was just nine months old and already could claim to be a multi-country traveller and a survivor of a civil war. The child had attached immediately to the couple. Mrs. Marfrand was everything that Lix was not. The home was well maintained, but not fancy. Fresh flowers were loosely arranged in a mason jar and the smell of baking bread wafted through the house. As they held Sophia on the day Lix said goodbye to her daughter, Lix had snapped a photo, one she had kept, until she eventually gave it to Randall. She snapped the picture, got into the car and drove back to her hotel, where she drank herself into an alcohol-fueled oblivion. The kind of drunken stupor that promised a painful morning, but Lix thought that all the pain in the world; the worst hang-over she could imagine was not enough punishment for abandoning her child, no matter how much logic was involved in the decision. Pain was a friend. A reminder of her loss and an impetus for her focus on the necessity of her reporting. Her work became her child. She became a bullet of truth, on a steady trajectory, determined to be the eyes of the millions of people who needed to know what was going on, but were unable to see for themselves. Over the years, Lix constructed her walls around that pain, but all of the booze and men and dangerous assignments afterwards never managed to truly erase it. They dulled it, pushed it into the dark corners where she could occasionally pretend it didn’t exist - but it was always there. The lost love and the lost child, both of whom the indomitable Lix Storm could never seem to eradicate from her soul.

All of these thoughts swirled up to the surface in the blackness and relative tranquility of the darkroom. Lix methodically printed the photographs. She smiled to herself, looking at the profile portraits of Randall. Seeing now what she had not earlier, that he was worried and that he was focused on their soon-to-be assailant across the street. She grabbed a magnifying glass and saw two shots that captured the man. She was glad it had been a bright, sunny day as even with that the focus was not great. But it was good enough. She knew that face. She had imprinted it onto her mind so many years ago. She thought him dead, or wished him dead, but there he was, very much alive. She went to the enlarger and reprinted those two negatives. One of them captured a pretty good shot of the man's face. Staring back at her, grainy in black and white, was The Butcher. She called her shadow over and told him what she had found. They headed over to New Scotland Yard to turn over the photos to the Detective Sergeant. She provided the scant information she had on The Butcher. They kindly told her they would do what they could to find him, but Lix knew full well that odds of that happening before he found her were minuscule. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not to only one to think that Randall would not just leave Lix with no reason other than fear. It seems completely out of character. So I had him in some unwanted pre-arranged marital obligation - and his sin was not telling Lix about it before the pregnancy.
> 
> The picture Lix discussed with Hector is the one I refer to here. I think Lix would have been stubborn enough to try to make it work but logical enough to realize that it would never be manageable. I also think that although it pained her, she would have realized she was not going to make a good mother and did what she thought best for the child.


	6. Calm Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lix and Randall share an evening of calm before The Butcher and the past both start to catch up with them.

After a week in the hospital, Randall was insistent that he be released. Lix heard him debating with the head nurse as she approached his room.

“I am not a child and it is well within my purview to insist on my release.” His gravelly Scottish burr always more prominent when he was frustrated, echoed along the hallway. Lix stuck her head around the door to gauge whether it was safe to enter right now or not. She motioned for her shadow to remain outside in the hallway, to which he was more than happy to oblige.

“Mr. Brown, purview or not, if you claim to not be a child, then why do you act like one? The doctor has advised you that you cannot properly change your dressings by yourself, that you could re-injure your shoulder causing permanent damage and that the pain medication will make you dizzy. You have confirmed yourself as a bachelor, with no family in London to assist you, so how exactly do you intend to manage?” The head nurse had squared off in front of him, her arms crossed. Lix had to give Randall credit for standing his ground. The nurse was not a woman to be trifled with.

“I’ll manage alone. I always do.” Randall uttered his retort with a little less vehemence. His aloneness was not something he cared to acknowledge in public. Lix quickly reached a decision and stepped into the room. “Mr. Brown will not need to manage alone. I will assist him.”

Both Randall and the nurse turned in unison to stare incredulously at Lix. The nurse shook her head, but then nodded. “Very well then, if you choose to subject yourself to his temperament, I suppose I cannot stop you. I’d say it is your lucky day Mr. Brown. I’ll sort the paperwork and process your discharge.” Lix moved over to Randall as the nurse left the room.

“A bit presumptuous on my part, I’ll admit.” Lix approached him cautiously, not certain of how he would react to her sudden intervention.

“Quite,” he said, his voice low and soft, never taking his eyes off of her. “But then you always have been.”

“Quite,” she whispered as she approached him. He had a thick layer of stubble from not shaving while in the hospital. She liked him looking less refined, though in the past, he was usually quite plastered when he was that inattentive to his appearance. She reached out to adjust the right sleeve of his robe, which was draped over his injured shoulder, and had slipped a bit. She gently smoothed the pale blue plaid fabric. Once finished, her hands lingered on his chest. She felt the reassuring beat of his heart under her hand. She rose her head to meet his eyes, whose color seemed to swirl and matched his robe and the sky and the ocean all at once. She thought she should stop herself from staring at them, but she was always mesmerized by his eyes. Their color was elusive and impatient, like they could not make up their mind what color they wanted to be. As she tried to pin down their current state, he tilted his head, leaned in and kissed her. She was surprised, but did not pull away.

“Bit presumptuous on my part,” he quietly mimicked her statement.

“Quite,” Lix responded a bit breathlessly. She separated slightly from him, but kept one hand on his chest, her mind racing at what had just happened. Pleased but unable to process her emotions, she changed the subject. “I developed the film. Your powers of observation have not diminished. You are correct that the man who fired the gun is connected to Spain. The man who pulled the trigger is The Butcher.”

Randall raised his left hand and covered Lix’s hand on his chest. “It would seem that the past is determined to weave into our present.”

“Indeed Mr. Brown. Let’s get you home. We need to figure his next move before he makes it. Although The Yard is on the case, I think we have a better chance at finding him ourselves.”

After the hospital paperwork was finished, Lix arranged for her shadow to take the three of them to Randall’s flat. She was not sure what to expect. When she had last been with him, it was in Spain and they were always in one of the various hotels designated for foreign journalists, depending on what city they were ensconced in and what story they were covering. This was different. This was what would have, perhaps, been her home too, had they managed to stay together. 

Randall called the right half of a three story duplex his home. They entered a small but tasteful lobby and turned to the right-hand door. He had imagined, well even hoped that Lix would come here one day, but never had he dreamt it would be under these circumstances. He turned his key in the lock and ushered her into his domicile. Lix’s shadow indicated he would take up a position in the lobby. Randall indicated a side chair in his entryway that detective constable could use. He removed a spare key from a cabinet, handed it to the officer and told him if he needed anything to let him know. Then Randall pulled the door closed and locked it. Now it was just the two of them. The silence was filled only by the ticking of the mantle clock.

The apartment was substantial for London standards, something Randall’s position as Head of News enabled. In the sitting room there were, not unexpectedly, many bookcases lining the walls, interrupted only by a good-sized black marble fireplace. A tasteful dark brown leather pin-tucked couch dominated the sitting room, with various newspapers, now over a week old, neatly arranged on the coffee table in front of it. Like his office, there were mementos of his travels: a set of jade carvings, an African woven mask, a Turkish hooka; all interspersed among the books.

“It is a lovely home Randall,” Lix decided to break the awkward silence, “I must admit I am impressed.”

“Lix, it is simply a place to sleep and eat, and one that I do not spend much time in, but thank you.”

Randall stood perfectly still and watched her examining his things. He watched her run her fingers over the spines of the books in his bookcase, an act he found tangibly sensual. He watched as she examined the dining room which was tasteful but obviously rarely used. Eventually, Lix moved into the kitchen, it was utilitarian but not harsh, in fact it was surprisingly comfortable. It was a galley layout, with a small table at the far end that looked out through a glass-paned door into an immaculate back garden. She deposited the package of bandages, dressings and medicines on it. “Where would you be most comfortable? And are you hungry?” She asked over her shoulder. Not hearing a response, she turned to find him standing in the kitchen threshold, looking at her with a pensive expression. Lix assumed he was bothered by her haphazard placement of the medical supplies on his kitchen table and turned to scoop them up, “Silly of me…it is your home, where would you like me to put these?”

He closed the distance between them quickly, reaching around her, putting his unharnessed left hand on top of hers, pushing the bundle back onto the tabletop. “No Lix, it’s fine. It’s not that. It’s not that at all. It’s just…in all of the times I imagined you here, none of them compare to the way the late afternoon sunlight is dancing through the clouds and the trees in the garden to reach your hair.” He paused, tilting his head and savoring the moment, then he continued, “Lix, I have wanted you to be here. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted. I want to try to make things right, to make amends…although I realize I’ll never really do that, but I want to try…but if you are here because you pity me…because you pity my injury, or feel some false sense of obligation to assist me…Lix, that is definitely not what I want.”

Lix stopped, still as a statue. She could feel the warmth of him behind her, feel the pressure of his hand on top of hers. She stared at his long fingers caressing her thumb, as he always had done. She felt the weight of his words and of his guilt. Her mind flicked through all of the conflicting emotions she was feeling. She took a deep breath and turned around to see him properly.

“Randall, I would be lying if I told you I did not feel an obligation, after all you saved my life.” She saw the corner of his mouth twitch, a telltale sign he was trying and failing to control his emotions. A sign that he thought he was losing her all over again, so she spoke quickly, before his complicated mind could become too entangled. “But it is more than just obligation. Last year you came back into my life, surprising me with your search for Sophia. And then the connection between us started to reform. When we were sitting in the bar, and you told me ‘it was a start’. And then we found out that we…we had lost her…lost her before we ever found her. Sophia is gone, but she was the connection between us and maybe she still is, in some sense, she has bound us together in spite of everything. I didn’t know how I felt about you when you turned up at The Hour and I still don’t know. You surprised me with your search for her. You surprised me with your passion about our daughter and our past. When we discovered Sophia was dead, I wanted to just rebuild all of those walls to isolate myself from the pain. You always were the one who could break those walls down Randall. It is an infuriating capability, I might add. And, although, we haven't spoken about us; I have been considering the possibility of there being an us. I have realized that I could entertain the notion some sort of an ‘us’. I told you, after you threw yourself in front of a bullet meant for me, that we have unfinished business Mr. Brown, and I meant it.”

 A ripple of relief flowed across his face. Lix leant in to embrace him and he pulled her close with his one good arm. He sighed, and with her ear against his chest she both heard and felt the rumbling vibration of his released anxiety. And then her hands were reaching up to his face, pulling him toward her and they kissed. This time, unlike at the hospital, it was not chaste, but rather it was urgent, pent-up for too long. It was an electrical storm of emotion. The intensity of the kiss, even as they slowly separated and their lips reluctantly pulled apart from each other, was empyrean.

Randall wiped a tear from her cheek. “Lix, I’ve made such a mess of things. I would be so grateful for a chance to make some small part of it right.”

“That’s a start, Mr. Brown.” 

Randall released Lix from his embrace and leaned against the kitchen chair grimacing slightly, trying to keep Lix from seeing it.

“You need to be in bed,” Lix stated.

“There you go, being so forward.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Lix smirked at him, “but you know what happens when you give me ideas.”

Randall raised an eyebrow. Lix gathered up the medical supplies and followed Randall up the stairs. They passed the second floor, which housed his office and two spare bedrooms. Continuing on to the third floor and into his bedroom which along with the en suite occupied the entire top floor of the apartment. It was painted a robin’s egg blue which gave contrast to the reddish tint of the mahogany furnishings. A sitting area with more bookcases nestled in the corner by a large bay window. A fireplace adorned the wall opposite the bed. 

Lix entered the room with a smile on her lips. This was not a place she expected to be. And the kiss they just shared in the kitchen, was stirring feelings Lix had thought were long buried. Bringing herself back to the moment, Lix turned down the bedspread and sheets, and sat Randall down on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to make a horrible Florence Nightingale. You really should have picked a better home nurse.”

“Lix, I hate to correct you, but I think it was you who picked me.”

“Whichever one of us initiated it, you might regret it.” She smirked at him while undoing his sling and unbuttoning his shirt. “I don’t want to you become agitated, so, kindly instruct me on how to fold or hang or place for laundering. But don’t get any smart ideas that I’m domesticated.”

Randall smiled. “I would never assume that about the untamable Lix Storm.” He then told her the location of his laundry hamper and instructed her on how to fold the shirt, and although she did not exactly manage it, he found he was able to let it go. 

He reattached the sling and excused himself to the bathroom with the intention of shaving. Lix waited patiently, knowing full-well that he could not shave himself. He was right-handed and his right hand and arm were currently immobilized. She heard him mixing his shave cream and then, after a pause, she heard hushed mumblings of his swearing.

“It might be easier if you let me.” Lix’s statement came out more like a question or a suggestion at best.

“Easier for whom?” Randall’s reply was somewhat muffled by the shaving cream lathered on his face.

Lix got up and joined him in the bathroom, from her vantage point behind him she observed their reflection in the mirror. His lean upper body had aged well. He still was muscular, something that had surprised her when she first saw him undressed in Spain. His skin was almost translucent and she found herself longing to touch him. She gave in to that longing, running her nails gently across the base of his neck and through the curls of his hair that tapered off there. Her actions caused him to sharply inhale followed by a slow exhale, and provided her with the satisfaction of the warm smile that formed across his face. Because when Randall smiled, truly smiled, his whole face readjusted, shedding the stoic veil that normally suppressed his features. Lix had always thought the transformation reminded her of a firework, which once its fuse was ignited, morphed its form from a solid, impassive cylinder into an explosion of light and color. And she embraced the memories of how satisfying it was to be the one who had caused this to happen. She smiled back at him, and regarded his shaving cream beard.

“Or you could leave it like that. You look like a very thin Saint Nick. Christmas is only a few months away though, not much time to fatten up.” She stifled a laugh behind a teasing smile.

“I assume you find this amusing?”

“Your assumption is correct. However, I would have you consider the high probability that this activity will not go well if you attempt to do it yourself.”

“Realize that.”

“So, repeating my previous offer, would you like me to assist you?” Lix extended her hand.

Randall alternately looked at his razor, his reflection in the mirror, his arm securely swaddled in a sling and Lix’s open hand. Shaking his head in resignation, Randall handed the razor to Lix.

Lix smiled triumphantly. Then she eased her hand around him to turn on the tap water. In her heels she was tall enough to position herself to shave him. The contact stoked the fire that had been building inside of her, but she needed to focus on the delicate task at hand first. She whisked the brush in the shave cream and added to what he had already applied to his face. She started at his cheek and slowly, methodically, shaved him. He barely moved, unless she asked him to. Although she liked his scruffy look, she found an intimacy in this activity that appealed to her. He trusted her. Once she had finished, she gently wiped his face. 

“There, I think that should do it.” Lix stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“No additional trips to the hospital then?” Randall asked teasingly.

“None whatsoever, see for yourself.” She turned him around so he could see himself in the mirror. “You know I thought you looked quite dashing with your unshaven rugged look.”

“Now you tell me. I suppose I’ve reverted back to a clean-shaven dullard?”

Lix ran the back of her hand along his cheek. He observed her in the mirror. Lix locked eyes with his reflected doppelganger. “Clean-shaven, yes. Dullard, not at all.”

Randall let the hint of a smile chase around his face. “Glad to hear that.” He reached around the back of the door to get his silk, blue-diamond pattern pajamas. 

Lix went back to the bedroom to get the medical supplies ready. He managed to get into his pajama bottoms, but after several unsuccessful attempts, he emerged from the bathroom holding the long-sleeve sleep-shirt in his hand. “I’ve managed as much as I could, but this,” he shook the fabric like a flag of surrender, “this has defeated me.”

Lix opened the bag of medical supplies. “I hardly think you’ll need it. And it’s just as well, I need to change that bandage.”

Randall sighed then reluctantly sat down in a green upholstered Queen Anne’s chair near the bay windows looking out over the city. The view mostly blocked by the partially drawn curtains, but for a two foot opening in the middle.

Lix gently removed the sling and then the dressings. She frowned as she revealed the stitches and the ragged scar left by the bullet and the surgery. “Oh, Randall…”

“No Lix, remember, no pity.”

Lix nodded. “Trying, and it’s not that I haven’t seen worse, but you were not the victim. I could use a drink though.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help there, unless it’s tea you want.”

Lix grumbled at that, but set about cleaning and re-bandaging his shoulder. Randall watched her, not speaking. She filled a glass of water for him and gave him the prescribed pain medicine. Over the course of the last hour or so, the dappled setting sunlight had rapidly retreated into a dark and overcast sky that rumbled with distant thunder. Lix turned on the lamp on the nightstand, and then helped him into bed. She adjusted the pillows to keep him from rolling onto his injured side while he slept. She stepped back, stretching, and then turned her head as the thunder resounded again.

“Lix, would you open the curtains? I love to watch a storm.”

She looked back at him with a wicked grin, “Double entendre Randall?”

“Always, Lix.”

Lix pulled open the curtains as the first edges of the thunderstorm whipped the trees on the street below and the sharp repercussive tap of the raindrops found the surface of the windows. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating her silhouette. The deep resonance of thunder rumbled and shook the building, like the bombs had in Madrid and Barcelona. Though she was looking at London, in her mind she was seeing Spain. So much had happened there, her life had changed so much…she had changed so much. She held the fabric of the curtain observing the ferocity of the wind and rain outside. She flattened her other hand against the thin pane of glass that protected her from the maelstrom outside. The rhythmic beat of the rain lulled her into a pensive meditation until an extraordinary splinter of lightning fractured the sky, shaking her from her revery. She turned and found Randall staring at her with a look she had not seen in many, many years. 

“A Storm within a storm. It could be too much for London, let alone my flat to contain,” he said huskily. 

Lix approached to bed and kicked off her heels, removed her stockings, undressed and then she slipped under the covers nestling against the man she had not been with for over twenty years. Randall wrapped his good arm underneath her, gathering her close to him. “Everything in the past, is past. All that matters is right now.” 

Lix shimmied against him, then turned to face him. “Show me what matters Randall.”

No more words were spoken that night, but the immutable Randall Brown showed the stoic Lix Storm what mattered as best he could. 

  


  



	7. Closing Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Butcher's shot may have missed, but he is still on the hunt for Lix.

The Butcher, Gerhard Brecht, sat in a dingy London flat, observing the same storm that Lix and Randall were watching, although his view was less panoramic and more street level. The one window in his below ground flat looked out on a sidewalk. He spent most of the day watching people’s ankles. He made his money sharpening knives and was now honing a newly acquired blade using a treadle wheel. He had built a foot pedal for his right foot and had a trough to catch the water and a drip spout mounted above to wet the wheel. Two bare-bulb lamps cast a eerie glow over the sparse thread-bare furniture. The effect of the lighting cast sharp shadows across the apartment. He worked slowly and methodically and the rhythmic sounds of the wheel spinning and the blade sharpening synchronized with the steady beat of the rain outside. His left leg was elevated on a chair with an ice pack on it. The injury was inflicted in the final days of the Spanish Civil War by some Republican guerrillas. Tipped off by Storm’s article and photograph, they had tracked him down. It was a pain he gladly bore, because the pain meant he was alive. The pain meant he had escaped the Spanish Socialist scum. It meant he had made it back to Berlin in time to play a part in the rise of the Reich. And while that war had been lost, The Butcher knew that he was not alone in his festering hatreds even here in London. The very British who had fought his homeland now counted fascists amongst their ranks. He knew that people of like mind existed in every country. Hatreds that knew no borders, hatreds that knew no defeat. 

He was in Hamburg during the last battle with the British before the war ended. He was disgusted when Wolz surrendered and even more so when Germany as a whole surrendered. He stole another dead German soldier’s identification and shaved his beard and mustache. Not that anyone had remembered The Butcher or the Spanish Civil War by this point. But Gerhard Brecht remembered Alexis Storm and her photograph. The photograph and the story that had set the Republican guerrillas after him. That had led to his torture and presumed death. 

It was when he was taken to an English POW camp he found himself in the unexpected position to resume his hunt for Lix Storm. He keep quiet at the camp, as none of the other POWs were much interested in continuing hostilities. They were passive workers. They actually liked the British farmers and clergy. Though little more than indentured servants, they seemed to ignore their lowly status and even became friendly with their captors. Gerhard hated these men. His fellow countrymen, who so easily abandoned the vision that Hitler had crafted. He dismissed them as country bumpkins, who would rather be farming, whether in England or Germany than stand and fight for anything. But he kept all of these thoughts to himself. He would play the long game because he fully intended to track down the woman who had ruined his life. He had every intention of finding Alexis Storm, the woman who had taken his picture in the barn so many years ago. 

He had been an exemplary prisoner, if somewhat distant. And his waiting game finally paid off when he was released two years after the war ended. He had slipped away from the rest of the newly released prisoners. He made his way to London. He killed a man and stole his wallet, using the money to get a flat and his sharpening wheel. In between jobs he started the long process of finding Alexis Storm. He found an old battered Nationalist rifle at a flea market. He restored it and eventually found ammunition. He had followed Lix over the last six months. The favorite pub of the journalists she associated with had finally presented him with the perfect opportunity to extinguish her life. Then that damn man stepped in front of his perfectly aimed shot. At first he was furious, but then as he reflected on the way events played out, he reached the conclusion that this was a message, showing him that a bullet was too easy a death. The next day he had gone to the pawn shop and traded the rifle for a Fairbairn Sykes British commando dagger which he was currently sharpening on the stone. As the torrential downpour outside intensified, he spoke to the empty room. “Like the honeysuckle sweetness of a thick humid summer day, my anger drips slowly from the blood groove of my blade, vicious and sticky and so very, very hungry. I’m coming for you Alexis Storm. Soon you will feel my vengeance.”

Lix Storm knew people. She knew people to go to when she needed information. Her contacts were in all walks of life, and while her main focus these days was on the international news, she always maintained her local London sources, and not just in the government offices. Lix could walk on the seedier side of town when needed and it was needed. She had left Randall’s flat the next morning with a bounce in her step that had been missing for a while. And while it had just been one night, she could not help but let her thoughts wander to the possibility of much more than that. Her shadow had taken her first to her flat where she bathed and changed, and then into the office, so she could scour her Rolodex. She put out inquiries, keeping her ultimate goal somewhat obtuse, as one couldn’t be too careful with the lot she was contacting. She provided a description of the man, although it was so vague she didn’t think anything would come of it. She put out feelers for the gun and the van. She left her desk number but also Randall’s private number at his flat. She wanted to give the number for her flat, but her shadow, Detective Constable Witherspoon, alas he did have a proper name, he would not allow that. She was already a target. 

“Miss Storm, there is no sense in making it any easier for your would-be assailant.” He didn’t speak much, but when he did Lix tended to pay attention. So she retreated back to her desk. Work was what she needed and she had an unfinished in-depth piece about the American space program following up on the announcement of the Mercury astronauts a few days ago. Cigarettes and whisky bottle at her side, she banged away on her typewriter, knocking out the story in a few hours. Settling back in her chair, arms behind her head, she scanned the copy to make sure she was happy with it. She was. As she pulled the last page out, Bel Rowley poked her head around the corner.

“Hello there. How are you doing?” Bel hung back in the doorway, making sure Lix wanted to talk.

Lix gestured her into her office, handing her the story she had just finished. “Tired, but otherwise I’m fine. Working - it’s always been my comfort. It’s Mr. Brown who suffered the most, and on my behalf.”

“How is Mr. Brown doing?”

He’s out of hospital, settled in his flat.” Lix looked up over the top of her glasses. Bel was a friend, but Lix knew discretion was called for. “Please don’t ask more.”

Bel smiled, fiddling with the papers Lix had handed her. “Lix, I won’t pry. However, I will observe, that for a woman under protective guard who has just had someone try to assassinate her, you do seem rather…happy.”

Lix rolled her eyes, then averted them. “Yes, well dear…these are unusual times…unusual times indeed.”

The jangling ring of the phone broke the awkward conversation. Lix grabbed the receiver from its cradle. “Lix Storm.”

Bel could hear the craggy voice on the other end of the line, Jeremy Brentwood, the owner of a local pawn shop. “Hullo Miss Storm. I’ve got yer message an’ may have summin’ of interest for you.”

“Jeremy I was hoping you would.”

“It’s that rifle you mentioned. I think I’ve got it in me shop. Definitely Spanish, Nationalist Spanish at that. The fellow who traded it was a first timer. Never seen him before. He was playing’ at a Northern accent, but I think he was a Jerry.”

“You are a dear Jeremy. I’ll be right down.”

“Miss Storm, ye know I’ll always help ye, but I’d ask that you refrain from calling me dear.”

“It will be our secret, I promise. Jeremy, I must provide fair warning, I’ll have a Constable with me.”

“Figured as much. There’s a bit of profit I’ve lost. Only for you Lix.”

Lix and Witherspoon left the BBC offices and headed to a distinctly less well-to-do part of town. As they entered the dingy pawn shop a bell on the door jingled to signify their arrival. Various bric-a-bracs, furnishings, instruments and other once beloved belongings were scattered throughout the small space inside the shop. At the far end, a long wooden countertop spanned most of the back wall with a cash register in the middle. Jeremy Brentwood emerged from the back office, wiping his hands on a rag and leaned his hands on the countertop.

“Miss Storm, always a pleasure to see ye.” He reached his hand out clasping Lix’s in a gentle but firm shake. Though always glad to see her, he eyed her shadow nervously, but decided the best way to remove him from his shop was to get this discussion over with quickly. He pulled a case from underneath the counter and set it down. He gestured with his hands for the detective to open it.

Witherspoon flipped the latches and opened the case. Inside nestled in red felt lay a Mauser K98k rifle with a bent bolt handle. 

“This is exactly what Randall thought he saw, same make & model, same bent bolt handle.” Lix observed the weapon with a slight shiver realizing that she was looking at the weapon intended to kill her.

“You realize, of course, that I’ll need to take this.” Witherspoon asked.

Jeremy grunted. He had known it from the moment that he had returned Lix’s call. “Yeah, knew that would happen but for Miss Storm here I’ll deal with it.”

“Jeremy, you said he traded. What did you give him in exchange?” Lix asked.

“He wanted a knife. Asked me for the best one I had. It was easy to pick, I just got a Fairbairn Sykes British commando dagger from a veteran. His mind was muddled from the war. He was having a bad time, lost his job, needed some coin.”

Lix snapped her head up looking at Witherspoon. It took him a moment to register her expression, as it was not one he had seen her wear before. When he finally interpreted it he realized it was unbridled fear. Lix spoke slowly, in a numbed voice, “His weapon of choice, a blade. He prefers to slit throats” Witherspoon took her by the arm, scooped up the rifle and tipped his hat to Jeremy.

“Miss Storm, I’d like to get you out of her. Shall we?”

Lix just nodded and allowed herself to be led out of the store to the car. They drove off as the sky darkened. Evening was falling and another storm was coming. The inclement, gloomy weather did nothing to raise her spirits. Once they were onto a main road Witherspoon asked, “Miss Storm, where will you be spending the night?”

Lix snapped out of her malaise, “Mr. Brown’s flat please.” She did not even need to think about it. 

Witherspoon called in the destination on his radio and arranged for another Constable to meet them there to stand guard for the night. He needed to get the weapon back to The Yard and he needed to get some sleep himself or he would be useless. When they arrived at Randall’s flat the replacement was already there. Witherspoon pulled him aside, gave him some instructions then turned back to Lix.

Lix, although initially irritated at his presence, had grown accustomed to his reassuring if somewhat hovering presence. “You’ll be back tomorrow?” She had stopped to ask before knocking on the door.

“Yes, Miss Storm, you will not get rid of me so easily. I just need to sleep a bit and also check in with my superiors. I’ll see you again tomorrow. Remember to be careful, please.”

“I’ll remember and thank you.” Lix then turned and knocked on the door. After a longish pause Randall opened it and raised an eyebrow at the trio on his doorstep.

“Miss Storm, Detective Constable Witherspoon and?” Randall eyed the newcomer suspiciously. 

“Constable Hendricks, I’ll be keeping an eye on things tonight sir.”

“Thank you.” Randall then turned his attention to Lix and seeing the look on her face reacted quickly. “We’ll just be heading in then. Let us know if you need anything. Good night.”

Randall ushered Lix into his sitting room. She looked terrified. He gently guided her to his sofa, sat her down and went to make some tea. In the kitchen he looked at the non-alcoholic beverage in the cup and frowned. Then decisively went back to the door, into the hallway to the flat across from his. Under the watchful eye of the Constable, he knocked on the door and after a brief exchange with his neighbor, returned to his flat with a bottle of Brandy and two bottles of wine. He went to the kitchen, poured a generous amount of Brandy into the tea and brought it out to Lix.

She had watched the entire process with interest. She looked up at him as he extended the cup and saucer toward her hands.

“Randall Brown, have you just poured me a drink?” She asked with a hint of disbelief in her voice.

“I have Miss Storm. You look like you could use something more potent than tea, and I will not impose my abstinence upon you.” Lix took the offering gratefully.

Randall let her take a few sips, then asked, “What has ruffled the stoic Lix Storm?” He smiled when he said it, hoping she would not go silent on him.

Lix looked over the top of the cup, making eye contact with him. He was the one man she had been able to share her most vulnerable moments without judgement. “One of my contacts, a pawn shop owner in South London…” Lix stopped, took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. “The Butcher has traded in his gun for a knife Randall.”

Randall took the tea from her and set it on his coffee table, then took her hands in his one good one and pulled her to him. “Lix, we’ll figure this out.”

“Maybe Randall, but will we figure it out in time?”

“Lix Storm, this time, I’m not leaving you. I will not let anything happen to you. We will figure it out. Out of our vulnerabilities will come our strength.” Randall paused for a moment massaging Lix’s shoulder. “The last part was Freud, slightly altered.” 

“I know that it is Freud Randall.” Lix smiled at him and leaned into his embrace. “And I know you will try, but how will we thwart this monster?”

“Well, funny you should ask as I’ve been working on that all day while you were out on the town with DC Witherspoon.” He chided her, hoping she would catch the humor in his voice, trying to get her engaged in the discussion and out of her despondence. 

“I was not ‘out on the town’ with him.”

“You have always been a flirt.”

“I have not, I…” Lix smirked and rolled her eyes stopping herself. Of course, she _had_ always been a flirt, Randall was right. Lix loved the game. She just shook her head chuckling. “I see what you just did there Mr. Brown. Quite the clever boy you are.”

“I have always been quite clever Miss Storm. You’ve told me so yourself, many times.” He smiled at her, and rising from the sofa, extended his good arm to her. “Come along then. I’ve something to show you to prove I’ve not been exaggerating. I _have_ been quite busy and clever today.” 

Lix rose with him and let him guide her up the first flight of stairs and into his private study. While the whole house was etched with Randall’s presence, no room was more so than his study. The lingering aroma of his favorite cigarettes, the decor mirroring his office at work, but more personal, more intimate. Here were his prize possessions and the tools of his trade, various typewriters he had collected over the years, his BBC staff badge, his cap from the war with his “C” correspondents badge on it and his brass “British War Correspondent” insignias. His Webley revolver was still ensconced in its holster. On a separate table by the window sat his collection of cameras. Lix momentarily forgot herself and made a beeline for them. It was an admirable collection. She gingerly picked up the Zeiss Contax II. It was the camera Randall had used when covering the Normandy invasion all the way on to Berlin. 

“Lens cap on I see.” Lix’s back was to him, but Randall was certain she was smiling.

“Always Miss Storm, lest dust get on it. But much as I could bathe in the sensuality of your fingers tracing over my photographic equipment, I mentioned that I’ve been rather industrious today. If I could turn your attention to the table and cork board over here?”

Lix gently replaced the camera and turned around. It took her a moment to absorb everything. Randall had a laid out index cards with the key, sparse information they had so far. Colored push-pins with ribbon between them traced the connections. His eccentric organizational skills were in full display. He moved over and picking up a pencil, he started pointing out the various items. Lix slowly walked up behind him slack-jawed at everything he had assembled. 

“Randall, how did you…I mean you’ve not left your flat, have you?” The last inquiry was a bit accusatory. He was supposed to have stayed put.

“Lix, I’ve not been out. I have put Freddie to good use. He brought me information and supplies. I couldn’t manage tying the string around the push-pins, hence the ribbon. It is a trifle gauche for my tastes, but it seems to be getting the job done. But I have been defeated in attaching the map to the board, one hand and all. If you’d be so kind as to unfold it perhaps we can manage together?” He went to the table and picked up the tightly folded map, extending it to her.

Lix just stood there. Reading the notes, following the connections, she was somewhat awestruck that he had managed to pull all of this together. She gazed at him gimlet-eyed. “You have your moments Randall. You really do. And this just might be one of them.”

“While I certainly hope so, but I think we still have a great deal of work to do before this is useful.”

“Well, let’s get started then.” Work, as always was the salve to Lix’s pains and worries. She helped him unfold the map and attached it to the cork board. Randall added the push-pin to the spot on the map with the pawn shop. Together they pieced together all the information they had, moving around the cork board with a fluidity of two people who had spent a great deal of time together. Eventually, after an hour or two, the cards were all placed. Randall came upon one last notecard and pinned it to a near-by doctor’s office, where one of his contacts had indicated that a man matching the description of The Butcher had visited on and off over the last six months. Lix was able to add the last bit of information from his visit to Brentwood’s pawn shop. The name matched the name on the receipt Jeremy had given her. The name was Gerhard Brecht. Randall sat down with a sigh into a leather chair facing their work area.

“Now we have a name to work with. We can get some help scouring the neighborhood first thing tomorrow. Let’s not call him The Butcher anymore. His real name seems to diminish him and I think that seems appropriate.”

“Agreed.” Lix was sometimes grateful for Randall’s practicality and this was one of those times. “Let’s get some dinner. I’m famished and you must be as well.” Lix wanted to make sure Randall ate something. He’d pushed himself today, she could tell.

“I have been famished Lix. For many, many years, I have been famished, starved by the pain of my decisions in the past,” he thought to himself. Out loud he simply said, “Yes, I am.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a man settled for a quick dinner in a pub. From his seat by one of the front windows, he had observed Lix Storm and her detective companion enter the pawn shop across the street. Disbelieving his luck, he quickly went back to his flat and got his motorbike. He waited around the corner until Witherspoon and Lix emerged. He followed the detective’s car discretely. When the detective pulled to a stop in front of Randall’s building, he drove past, following their path in his rearview mirror as they entered. As he sped back home, he had a wicked grin on his face. He knew where she was and he was coming back to finish his long planned retaliation. Tonight would be Lix Storm’s last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history of war correspondents during WWII is fascinating. One of the oddities of the time is that they sometimes recorded reports on "disc recorders". These were so-called portable devices that etched recordings on vinyl record discs. All of the equipment was heavy, bulky and unwieldy. War correspondents had to lug some or all of this into battle zones. These men and women were truly dedicated to getting the story out.


	8. Shadows in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randall helps Lix shake off the anxiety of the day while an unseen danger draws ever closer.

As Lix and Randall assembled dinner in the kitchen a man walked along the sidewalk across the street. He moved slowly, with a noticeable limp in his gait. Bundled against the torrential downpour in a dark trench coat made even darker by the soaking rain and a wide brimmed hat pulled low over his face, he cut a nondescript figure. He slowed as his line of sight paralleled the entryway of Randall’s building. He observed the guard, sitting in the chair he had been provided, reading a newspaper. That told him which side of the building Randall and Lix were in and he picked up his pace. As he reached the alleyway behind the building, he looked around to make sure he was unobserved. In this weather, no one was outside and no one was watching. Quickly turning the corner, he ran his hand along the rain and moss slick wet brick wall. It was incredibly dark and the only illumination came from the lights inside the flats, but even that was dulled and muted by the deluge. The man slowed his pace, keeping one hand on the wall. After about eight meters he felt an indented section of the wall with a door. He came to an abrupt stop. He tried the door, expecting it to be locked and his expectations were correct. He needed to get into the back garden quickly and decided to jump the wall. He selected a section underneath a tree. Checking one last time that no one would observe him, he raised his arms up and mostly using his good leg, he jumped. While his leg strength was not great, his upper body was honed. His fingers grasped at the capstone, seeking purchase, his legs flailing against the brickwork, until he managed to pull himself up atop the wall. He sat there, catching his breath, trying to stay motionless. His gaze fixed on the kitchen door across the backyard as he tried to discern if he had been spotted. He could clearly see through the glass panes. Lix was opening a bottle of wine. Randall stood at the stove sautéing something. They had not noticed him.

“How quaint.” Gerhard Brecht whispered watching the couple inside the dry, warm house as he became more soaked and cold. “Enjoy yourselves while you can. Life is too short, or so they say.” Brecht now knew that he had hit Randall when he was aiming for Lix Storm. The fact that she was with him complicated his path to his quarry, but the man was injured and Brecht felt he could quickly dispose of him. Still, it would be better to have an element of surprise. Better to wait until they were sleeping. Brecht had waited a long time and a few more hours, especially if they improved his chances of success, were an easy burden for him to bear. He slide further along the top of the wall until he was well under the tree’s canopy and settled his back against the trunk. He would wait.

“Randall darling, are you always such a chef de cuisine these days?” Lix found the two bottles of red wine that Randall had obtained from his neighbor. They were nice vintages she noted as she poured her wine into a juice glass. Randall did not have any wineglasses available. Turning around fluidly and leaning against the counter, the twinkle in her eye had returned. The stress of the afternoon eased slightly as she easily slipped back into the comfort afforded by her long history with Randall. She watched as he finished cooking two filets of sole with beurre blanc sauce getting hungrier by the minute. 

“Only when I ring up a friend at the grocer and have him deliver ingredients to my house a few hours before a beautiful dinner guest arrives on my doorstep. Although I did learn a few tricks whilst at the Paris Bureau.” Randall briefly rose his eyes from his cooking duties to catch Lix’s. 

She smirked at him. “You’re showing off.”

“Possibly,” he replied dryly.

Lix sipped her wine, lost in thoughts about the years they had missed with each other, wondering about what had happened to him, what had changed him, when he stopped drinking, when he started thinking about Sophia… Randall was mulling over similar thoughts. As he watched Lix sipping her wine he felt the familiar pang of addiction; the yearning for a drink. But then he reflected on the path that had led to his sobriety, so many years ago.

Randall had run from Spain, but he couldn’t outrun himself, and he never even tried to outrun his drinking. He threw himself into work. First in Paris, until the Germans came, then covering the war. He married his fiancé though he didn’t love her. And while his drinking was destructive before that, it became worse afterwards. He was hardly ever home and she did not want to leave Scotland. The rare times they were together were punctuated by arguments about his obsession with his work and his drinking. She had been the one to end their marriage. She sent him a note, which he received whilst hunkered down in a foxhole with a microphone and a portable disc recording device covering the British advance inland from the beaches of Normandy. Her letter was curt and succinct in its content:

_Randall - I scarcely can say that I have spoken with you long enough to know anything about you, but there are things that I know in my heart. You do not love me, and you never have. Your heart belongs to someone else. You are never here. I am left to tend to the house and grow older each passing day, alone. If you were man enough to admit it, you would have left me long ago, or perhaps never married me in the first place._

_There is another man, the son of a friend of father’s. I care for him and I allow myself the hope that he cares for me at least with equal fervor. You have never harmed me and have provided financially, so I do hope you realize that I am not asking this out of malice, but rather that you will not deny these truths and that you will not deny me a chance at happiness. It is a happiness that I sincerely hope you will also find one day. But it will not be with me Randall. And we both know it._

_I’ve taken the liberty, with father’s help, to prepare the necessary paperwork, although it will be infinitely less trying if you initiate the actions. I do not believe that you have been or would be unfaithful since you married me, just that your heart is with another. Therefore, I’ve filed with causes of drunkenness and desertion. Not only do I feel this will avoid tainting our reputations with an adultery causation, but I also believe it to be the truth - something in the few times that we have spoken, you seem to find a worthy pursuit._

Randall had little to disagree with in her letter. And he had to admit to himself that he really was not dismayed by her request, more relieved and it gave him good cause to down a few bottles with his fellow correspondents at the front, not that he ever needed an excuse. The next day he threw himself into his work with even more vigor, as if it was even possible to do so. His reporting, bolstered by his alcohol intake, assumed a reckless air that found him in the most precarious of situations. Randall didn’t care about the danger. In fact he didn’t care about much of anything. The only goal was to get the story, then figure out what the next one was and get that one too. Several of the journalists he had hung around with at the start of the war had distanced themselves from him. His methods had become too risky. Most of the time he travelled alone. He briefly made friends with the troops he was embedded with, but then he filed his dispatch and he left them to their fate. His constant companion was the bottle or flask. His work during the war was powerful and his insights cut deep. No one else could compete with him. No one else would go where he would go.

Once the war had ended and he got back to London, he proceeded with the divorce filing. He saw his wife only one more time at court, and she left with a man who he assumed to be the same one she had referenced in her letter. He attempted to get into the London BBC offices, but his drinking had achieved an almost legendary status and his superiors quickly opted for secondment to the Paris Bureau. 

His first day he had arrived late and disheveled. His bloodshot eyes tried to guide his hands to light a cigarette. He was reaching into his desk to pull out his morning tumbler of Scotch when his new head of news, Brian Fletcher knocked on his door loudly, causing Randall to grasp his head and grimace. Without awaiting a reply Fletcher entered his office, pulling the door shut behind him.

“You’re an alcoholic.” Fetcher stated flatly and moved close to Randall’s chair, staring down at him critically. Fletcher was tall and lean, about ten years older than Randall. His thick wavy brown hair was slicked back, but a few errant curls escaped and bounced over his forehead. He had a world-weary visage, but had not lost the boyish twinkle in his eyes. 

This introductory comment got Randall’s attention. He put the bottle down and tried to focus his eyes. He was not in Paris because he was seen as the best of the best. He knew that. He awaited the chewing out he knew was coming. It always did. But he was surprised by what his head of news said next.

“Congratulations, you are in good company.” Fletcher extended a hand to Randall who after some trepidation, shook it. “Welcome Mr. Brown. I wish I could say I was glad to see you, but I’m a stickler for truth and that would be a bold-faced lie. You are here because while you are a brilliant journalist, you are also hell bent on destroying yourself, with the bottle being you weapon of choice. Your premature demise would be a pity.”

“I handle my work well enough.”

“Really? Well enough? That does not sound like the aspiration of the man who wrote one of the most moving pieces of anti-fascist journalism I ever read. You must recall it - Barcelona 1937? Nor is it the ethos of the person who captured the terror of battle and its aftermath in Normandy and beyond. You handle your work ‘well enough’ because your work is playing second fiddle to your drinking, but it needn’t be. You are capable of so much more.”

“No, I’m not. Not anymore. Things have changed… and not for the better.”

“Ah, I’ve found that is often the case.” Fletcher sat on the edge of Randall’s desk and flipped a paperweight shaped like a small globe up in the air, caught it and repeated the process. “And that is why I’ve come to make a deal with you.”

Randall looked up at him. His eyes were fearful, hopeful and scornful all at once.

“You will stop drinking and you will go see this man tomorrow.” Fletcher handed a business card to Randall. It was the card of a local psychoanalyst, Jacques Lacan.

“Who is this?”

“This man helped me. He might be able to help you. You are a thinker Mr. Brown, a philosopher, a man of some intellect when you are not muddling your brain with drink. Give him a chance to work with you. You might be surprised at the results.”

“And what if I don’t agree to all of this?”

“Then you no longer work here and you will never work for the BBC, anywhere in the world ever again. And if I can stop any other journalistic organization from hiring you, I will use my influence to do so. I will make sure of it.”

Randall closed his eyes and gripped the card in one hand and the edge of the desk in the other. He was angry, but not at Fletcher. No, Fletcher was spot on about him. He was angry with himself. He had allowed himself to get into this deplorable position. Fletcher was throwing him a lifeline. Randall faced an ultimatum. He must choose what he loved more, the bottle or journalism.

“If it is any comfort to you, you are looking at living proof that you can make it through this. I’ve been exactly where you are right now.” Fletcher put his hand on Randall’s shoulder. “Either Jacques tells me you are with him tomorrow or you are packing your things and crawling back to your precious bottle. I hope it is the former rather than the latter. You really are a brilliant correspondent and I’d love to have you on my team.” Fletcher left, closing the door gently behind him, leaving Randall staring the bottle on his desk and the business card in his hand. The next morning he rose early in the morning, disposed of or gave away all of his liquor and after a long scalding hot shower, went to see Lacan. He never had a drink since.

It was like an avalanche of thoughts once they started and he had to rouse himself from them, as he almost singed the fish. Lix found herself staring at her wine glass and as if reading his thoughts she asked, “Does it bother you? My drinking?”

Randall scooped the sole filets from the pan and plated them, then turned his full attention to her. “Bother is not the right word. I am surrounded by drinking, my friends, family, most people I know. It presents a temptation, and maybe more so with you, since drink was so much a part of our lives when we met, but I am not selfish and am not imposing my restrictions on you. It is my choice and it only applies to me. Just don’t ask me to join you, hmmm.” He put his hand on her shoulder, seeking to reassure her.

“Perhaps I can tempt you with something other than alcohol.”

“Interesting hypothesis, Miss Storm.”

“I’ve found that scientific method is very rigorous in testing a hypothesis Mr. Brown.”

“One can only hope so. Shall we adjourn to the dining room?” 

Lix grabbed the plates and her wine. Randall took the salad, flicked off the kitchen light and they headed into the dining room. He had a fire going in the fireplace to counter the damp chill of the rainy spring evening and candles on the table with settings for two. They ate in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the quiet comfort of good food and each other’s company.

“I so rarely get to use this room. It is a delight to actually dine in the dining room. You know, I realized I had achieved a certain modicum of success when I had an actual room just for dining. Do you remember in…”

“…Madrid, when we used your valise for our table and sat on the floor of your hotel room, dining on tinned sardines and beans because we spent the last of our cash on a case of whiskey? Yes, I remember it quite well.” Lix stopped eating looking up from her plate, catching his eyes. His gaze was smoldering.

“Then you remember when the candles I put on the valise burnt down so low that they fell over…”

“And almost set the hotel on fire!” Lix laughed and held her hand to her mouth. “You grabbed my blouse…”

“Well, you were the one who chose to dine without it and I needed something to put out the conflagration.” He too was laughing now.

“It was hot and humid and you didn’t seem to mind. Then you soaked it in the sink, and ruined it squelching the flames. I was furious.”

“At first, but then you were less furious.” He reached across the table taking her hand in his. “Less furious and more aroused.”

“Well, there was fire and danger and you playing the hero and me without a top on, so I suppose one could say the conditions were right.”

Randall rose and moved to stand behind her chair. He reached in and started to unbutton her blouse, albeit somewhat clumsily with only one hand. “I cannot recreate all of that, but there is a fire in the fireplace…”

Lix felt a shiver run through her body as the long fingers of his hand sought purchase on the fabric of her blouse and his thumb grazed the skin between her breasts. He slowly worked his way down to the next button. “Yes, there is a fire, I shan’t need to knock over the candles,” Lix murmured.

“And there is certainly danger.”

“Yes, there certainly is that too.”

“And I’ve already played the hero.”

“Yes, you have.”

“And I am not serving sardines, but a lovely sole beurre blanc.”

“It was a lovely entree.” Lix murmured and gasped as he finished unbuttoning her blouse and then slid his hand up her side, across her shoulder and down her back to unclasp her camisole. She arched her back shaking off her garments, letting her arms fall to her sides. Randall leaned in kissing her neck, finding the spot that he always did. The point where he would nibble and murmur and start to unravel her. His voice was muffled as his lips explored her neck and shoulders, “And I think that you are now also clothed or de-clothed I should say, in a similar manner, if memory serves me. How am I doing?”

“Ohhh, you…you are doing quite well. Remarkable memory, Mr. Brown.” Lix pulled deep breaths and bit her bottom lip. Randall pulled her up and into his embrace.

“Shall we indulge in the temptation you mentioned earlier?”

Lix splayed her fingers, caressing his face, tracing around his ears, down the side of his cheeks. “Yes, I think we should do that. I think we should do that right now.” Her voice was low and husky with desire. Her eyes hooded she leaned in and kissed him slowly.

“I think you know the way to the bedroom Miss Storm. Do lead on.” He reluctantly separated from her and let her lead him up the stairs into his bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to tie together some of Randall's backstory hinted at in the show. His marriage and its end, his drinking and its end and how he ended up sober and single and head of the Paris Bureau.


	9. Nowhere to Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tapestry of past and present weaves together in a penultimate night as The Butcher finally finds Lix and Randall.

Outside, Brecht saw the third floor light turn on. He noted the time on his wristwatch and waited another thirty minutes or so before he made his move, then he gingerly jumped down off the wall and slowly made his way through the garden. He huddled down in front of the kitchen door and pulled a lock-pick from his coat pocket. He slowly and as quietly as possible started working the lock. His heart pounding in his chest and his mind racing as he moved one step closer to his goal. As he worked his thoughts drew back darkly to the time when he fled Spain, gravely injured, almost dead. 

The Republican guerrillas had tortured him, left him in a ditch, thought him dead…ironic that they were the ones most certainly now dead. Franco would have seen to it. There was some solace in that, but at the time, he just needed to get out of Spain. As he stumbled and dragged himself through the countryside, using the sun, the moon and the stars to guide his direction, he had already started to plan his revenge on Lix Storm. He had played his part in the Fascist experiment in Spain and with each agonizing step he pulled himself closer to continuing that role as Europe devolved into chaos. Helped by a truckload of Italians, he managed to get enough medical assistance that he could function, albeit in great pain. At that point he had wanted to get back to Germany, but realized he was limited to a series of shorter trips with recovery time in between. He finally arrived in Paris in late September, finding the city in German hands, he was able to reunite with some of his SS colleagues. He was also able to get proper medical attention, although the doctor told him what he already knew. The wounds had not been treated properly. His leg would never recover and he would always have to endure the pain and disfunction. He resolved to let the pain and frustrating limitations fuel his anger and his anger fuel his revenge. This was when he was the closest to catching up with Lix Storm, but just when he thought he had her in his grasp, he realized that in fact she had eluded him. She left France a few months earlier to cover the conflict in North Africa.

With a last twist on the lock, Brecht heard the soft click of the tumbler slipping free rousing him from his memories. He slowly opened the door and entered the kitchen. He slipped the lock-pick back into his coat and removed the knife he had just bought and sharpened. He stood still as a statue. Above him he could hear the sounds of Randall and Lix making love. He was so close, in the same building as his prey. It was closer than he had ever been. He would take his time with her. Yes, he would wait, because the waiting would make his revenge that much sweeter. He leaned against the countertop intending to settle in for a while, when he bumped one of the wine bottles, which with a loud shattering of glass, fell to the floor.

Upstairs Randall and Lix were enjoying the afterglow of their climax. She lay atop him, shuddering as the last waves of her orgasm rippled through her. He felt her laughing and tilted his head to catch her eye inquisitively.

“What, may I ask, is so amusing?”

“Nothing…it’s just that we could have been doing this for the last twenty years. I’m appraising our immense stupidity. We really have botched this up haven’t we?”

He let her slide off him and cradled her in his good arm. “No, not we, I. I have botched it. Would that I could turn back the clock and change things, God knows that I would. But I can’t and all we have is right now. I swear, I will make the most of every minute with you from now on. If you’ll let me.”

“Randall, I have loved and hated you. I have been with you in some of the most formative moments of my life. I have been without you in some of my darkest days. But I have never let you out of my heart. Never.”

He pulled her close to him. Running his fingers along her spine. He leaned in to kiss her when then both started at the clamor downstairs. 

Randall jumped out of bed and with only one functioning arm, clumsily pulled his trousers on. Lix grabbed his dark blue shirt and threw it on, as she had no idea where her clothes were. 

Randall whispered in her ear. “Obviously we have an intruder, and we can both guess who it is. We need to obfuscate. I’m going to open the door to the rooftop access ladder. We’re going to speak loud enough that he can hear me tell you that we will hide there but you are not joining me on the roof. Instead you are going to hide in my armoire. Once he follows me to the roof, you sneak downstairs and get Constable Hendricks.”

“No, Randall, it’s too dangerous. It is an abominable idea.”

“Lix abominable or splendid, we don’t have time to argue. I cannot fight him off with one arm in a sling and we have no weapons. Let’s be realistic, neither of us is likely to incapacitate him, unless we plan on blinding him with a flash bulb and hitting him over the head with a camera.”

“Yes, yes of course you are right. We don’t even have said flash and camera.” Lix reluctantly acquiesced and after they played out their misdirection on the stairwell landing, Lix went back into the bedroom and slipped into the wardrobe. Meanwhile Randall unlocked the door to a small alcove with a ladder that ascended to a hatch leading to the rooftop. He moved as quickly as he could given the confined space and his injury. The rungs were cold on his bare feet. He reached the top and struggled before successfully pushing open the rusted and infrequently used roof access., emerging into the stormy night.

Downstairs, Constable Hendricks heard the shattering glass and quickly went across the entryway to the neighbors. He had them call in to DC Witherspoon and request they send out additional officers. Then he told the couple to lock up their door. He turned back to Randall’s door knocking and calling out for Mr. Brown. Receiving no response, he retrieved the spare key Randall had provided and opened the door. He quietly entered the flat, looking around the room, now only dimly lit by the glowing embers in the fireplace and a single lamp in the corner. Hendricks shouted, “Mr. Brown. Is everything all right sir?”

Not hearing any response, Hendricks cautiously entered the apartment. Flipping on lights he examined the first floor. He saw the broken bottle spilling red wine across the kitchen floor. He pulled out his baton and slowly started to climb the stairs to the second floor landing. He was about to open the door to Randall’s office when a figure moved out of the shadow behind him, threw an arm around his neck and drove an extremely sharp blade into his chest. Hendricks gasped. It was the guttural, broken breath of a dying man. Then Hendricks went limp in Brecht’s grip. Brecht released the officer and let his body fall to the floor. One more death at his hands and it invigorated the twisted hatred in Brecht’s soul. 

Brecht swung around to the staircase and as he made his way up to the third floor he shouted, “Alexis Storm, your policeman protector is no longer at your service. I’m coming for you and when I find you…and I will find you, I will make you my masterpiece. I will take my time with you. You will regret the day you took that picture of me. Well, you will regret it for those few painful moments before you die. You can run to the roof, but there is no where to go from there and your injured consort will not be able to protect you. I’ve been coming for you for a long time and tonight I have finally find you.” 

Lix shuddered in her hiding place. The man was a lunatic, a dangerous unbalanced murderer. She had no doubt that Brecht had just killed Hendricks. She needed a different plan and remembering Randall’s service revolver in his study, she thought she just might have a way out of this nightmare. However, it meant waiting. Waiting for Brecht to make his way to the rooftop and to Randall. Randall, who placed himself in danger on her behalf, again. Damned irritating and she was not having any of it. No, she was not letting him sacrifice himself for her. Lix Storm did not sit like a passive bystander waiting to be saved, she took action. She held her breath as she heard Brecht’s footsteps as he ascended the last of the stairs. He was on the landing, not five meters from her. 

Brecht could hardly miss the alcove and the ladder leading to the roof. The wind made the open hatch creak and groan in the wind, and rain water was dripping onto the floor at the base of the ladder. Brecht chuckled to himself. “Too easy my pets. You are making this too easy. My blade has already tasted blood, only not the blood it hungers for. But it will be sated tonight, oh it definitely will.” 

Brecht tucked the knife back into his coat and clambered up the ladder. When Lix heard his footfalls on the rooftop above her, she exited the armoire and padded silently downstairs to the study. She paused, spotting the crumpled body of Hendricks. She could hardly say she knew him, but she felt sadness and guilt that this stranger had died trying to defend her and Randall. However, she could not help a dead man, but she definitely could try to avenge his death. She went straight to the table with the Webley Mk IV revolver and turned on a small table lamp. She had handled guns before, but those were hunting rifles on her father’s estate. She slide the gun from its holster and examined the weapon. Of course, Randall had kept it cleaned and oiled, in perfect condition, not that Lix thought he had used it or ever would. Lix on the other hand had no qualms against using it, but she needed ammunition. Noticing a small drawer in the side of the table, Lix opened it and found what she was looking for, neatly arranged in perfect symmetric rows, the cardboard boxes with the brass .38 caliber bullets. She grasped the gun with both hands, barrel in one and grip in the other and pushed down the lever breaking the revolver open. She loaded six bullets into the cylinder and snapped it shut. Then she headed back up the stairs. The hunter was now the hunted.

As Lix made her way toward confrontation, DC Witherspoon raced across town toward Randall’s flat. He and three other constables battled through rain drenched streets to get there in time. He cursed himself for leaving tonight, but nothing to do now but get back post haste. The officer next to him asked, “Do you think we’ll make it in time?” Witherspoon kept his gaze glued to the slick streets as he fish-tailed around a corner. “We have to constable, there is no other acceptable outcome.”

Randall was immediately regretting his lack of clothing, let alone rain gear. It was raining like hell. The wind was driving the downpour in a horizontal direction, each drop like an icy needle hitting him. He was soaked and cold, but he kept focused. He needed to give Lix time. He huddled down behind a chimney listening for Brecht. He heard the screech of the hatch hinges and then he heard the voice of The Butcher.

“I know you are up here. There is no where left to run. Come out and face me. Or are you both too frightened. No matter, I have plenty of time to find you.” He turned and slammed down the hatch cover. He then started slowly traversing the roof top, making a scrapping sound as he dragged his bad leg along the tar paper, checking each vent stack, each chimney, each feature that could provide cover. Randall looked around him, he could dodge over to a low rectangular brick protrusion, but would have to wait for Brecht to move over to the right side of the roof to remain unseen. Picking up a pebble with a hand shaking from the chilling wet conditions, he flung it with his left hand over in the direction he wanted Brecht to turn. It worked, Brecht went to investigate. Randall ran to the structure and crouched down on the far side. A few more minutes gained.

Lix heard the hatch slam shut and knew that Brecht and Randall were both on the roof, playing a deadly game revolving around her. She steeled herself. She had been in tough circumstances before; war zones, riots, wherever there was trouble, Lix tried to make sure she was there. She had a gun. Brecht only had a knife. She resolved that she would be the one to put an end to his reign of terror. She slowly, cautiously climbed the ladder. She hesitated at the hatch. It would make enough noise to attract Brecht’s attention. She didn’t want to reveal herself too soon, but she could not wait too long. Randall’s situation was unknown to her. She was about to push up against the hatch when she heard footsteps coming closer. She braced herself against the wall and aimed the gun upward, holding it with both hands, but thankfully the footsteps moved past her. She sighed in relief, sagging against the wall.

Brecht realized that he had been tricked and spun around re-tracing his steps. He scanned the rooftop, and as a flash of lightning illuminated his surroundings he spotted the top of Randall’s head. “I know where you are. Come out and face me.” 

Randall grimaced. He had no idea what was taking Lix and Hendricks so long. He prayed that she was unharmed. He weighed his options, then decisively rose and stepped out. His lean figure stood tall in the rain and biting wind. “Gerhard Brecht, isn’t it? Wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, but alas, that is really not the case.” Randall rambled on, slowly maneuvering around the brickwork to keep it between them. “Lovely weather this evening. You must remember the storms in Madrid, yes?”

Brecht pulled the knife from his jacket and pointed it at Randall. “Where is she?”

“You know, weather aside, which granted is a difficult turn to take at this moment, the thing I most miss about Spain is the jambon. You must remember that?”

“I remember slicing it, like I will slice you.” Brecht snapped his head left and right, trying to see where Lix was. Not finding her, he focused back on the man across from him. He needed to get him out of the way. He made to move to the left and once he saw Randall dodge in the opposite direction he spun around reversing direction and intercepted him. Randall jumped back as the blade swung out at his bare chest. He started backing away from Brecht, with an occasional quick glance over his shoulder to gauge how close he was getting to the edge of the roof. Under his breath Randall muttered, “Come on Lix, now would be a good time.”

The screeching of tires on the streets below was heard above by the two players of this deadly game. DC Witherspoon and his constables had finally arrived. Randall heard the doors opening and being unfortunately close enough to the edge to see over the parapet, he ventured a look down below. That was a mistake as he took his eyes off Brecht for few scant seconds, and Brecht made his move. He lunged at Randall, who saw the movement just in time to sidestep the attack. However, his arm restrained in a sling and the rain-slick surface played with his balance and he slid with a thud onto his back. 

Lix heard Witherspoon below and the thud from above. Deciding she needed to get up there without delay, she gave a shout downstairs and alerted Witherspoon to her location. Then hoping she had assistance on the way, she pushed open the hatch and stepped out onto the roof. Brecht was towering over Randall, just a stone’s throw from the edge of the building. Thunder rumbled with such force that the entire edifice shook and it masked Lix’s arrival on the rooftop. Brecht kept his focus on Randall as Lix crept up silently behind him. 

“Looks like you’ve run out of luck. Once I’ve got you out of the way, I’ll enjoy my time alone with your lady friend.” Brecht took the heel of his boot and jammed it into Randall’s injured shoulder. Randall cried out in pain, but never let his steely eyes leave Brecht’s. He saw Lix approach behind his assailant. He did not want to give away her presence, so he swallowed his pain and resolved to keep Brecht talking.

Panting between words, he spit out, “Brecht, men like you are nothing. You are a dried up relic from a long ended war. Your side lost by the way. You’ll not get off this rooftop alive.”

“Neither will you, I’ll wager.”

Having worked his way through the first floor and up the first flight of stairs, Witherspoon found Hendricks. He knelt down next to the lifeless form, his head in his hand. It could well have been him laying there cut down by an evil blade. If he had not swapped places tonight… No sense mulling over what might have been. There was still work to do. “Hendricks…so very sorry mate. We’ll get the bloody bastard that did this to you.” Witherspoon was one of a very few who had been cleared to carry a weapon. His marksmanship during the war had qualified him for the rare allowance to have a sidearm. He pulled out his revolver and turned his attention to the access ladder. Surmising that everyone was on the roof, he followed. He brought two of his men with him and left one to guard the landing in case they were not successful in stopping Brecht.

Lix was close enough now to get a shot. She shouted to be heard above the storm. “Get away from him Brecht, or so help me I’ll kill you.”

Brecht spun around but kept his foot planted on Randall. Seeing Lix, he grinned like a starving wolf. “Ahh, Alexis, so glad you could join us.” He dropped down next to Randall, pulling him up like a shield. “I’ll slice him, you know I will. You’ve seen me do it before.” Kneeling behind him, Brecht pulled back Randall’s head back exposing the pale flesh of his neck. Lightning flashed around them and thunder rumbled again. “Just like in that barn. You watched me, you know what I can do. Come here Alexis Storm. I’ll trade you… your life for his. A fair exchange, yes?”

Alexis Storm looked into Randall Brown’s eyes. Those eyes that she loved so much. Life had never been fair to them and it certainly wasn’t about to change tonight. She knew that with one swift move, a few seconds ticking off the clock, The Butcher would end Randall’s life without a thought or regret. She had lost him once and she was not about to lose him again. She had to buy some time for Witherspoon to figure out where they were and make his way up to the roof. She lowered the gun. “Let him go. You have a deal.”

“No! Lix, what are you doing?” Randall struggled against Brecht’s grip. 

Brecht pulled Randall to his feet, keeping the blade just above his jugular. “Throw the gun down,” Brecht barked the order above the drumming rain.

“Let him go first.” Lix countered.

Brecht weighed the options. He wanted his blade to touch her pale skin. “On three, we trade. Agreed?”

“Yes.”

“No, Lix,” Randall beseeched her.

“One. Two…” then as Lix began to lower her weapon, Brecht cheated and lunged at her. He sliced her arm with a quick, deep cut just above her elbow, causing Lix to drop the gun. Randall quickly pivoted his body pulling Brecht away from Lix. Lix looked down, shocked as the ripped shirt revealed the injury. The blood, at first not visible, seemed to magically well up and started flowing down her arm. She stepped back distancing herself slightly from Brecht and Randall and moved closer to the gun.

Suddenly, Witherspoon and his two men burst onto the roof. Brecht was startled, but recovered quickly, and with Randall still in his grasp he raised the blade, but Lix shouted at him. “No, Brecht! Wait!”

She then turned to Witherspoon, and pleaded, “Please, keep back. I’m begging you.”

Witherspoon stopped, raised his arm to hold his men back. He didn’t know Lix Storm very well, but he had come to respect and admire her over the last few days. He was quite certain that this woman never begged for anything, yet here she was drenched to the bone, begging him to hold back. And something told him that he should listen. It was obvious that if they rushed Brecht, he would kill Randall Brown. He nodded to her. They would play this out her way. Brecht would not leave this roof alive. The challenge was to make sure everyone else did. Lix returned the nod, gratefully. Gathering her courage she turned back to Brecht and Randall.

“It’s me you want Brecht. You can still get what you came here for tonight. But only if you let him go.”

Randall mouthed the word “no”. His Adam’s Apple bobbed dangerously close to the blade as he swallowed thickly.

Lix smiled at him. It was the same smile she had at Casa Almirall when they first met, so many years ago. The years of pain and doubt washed away in the never-ending rain of this horrendous night, left two people, each peculiar in their own way, yet somehow suited to each other. Randall very slowly closed his eyes. Lix thought he was crying, but then he suddenly slammed his good arm back, elbowing Brecht in the stomach and leapt out of the way of the man and his deadly blade. Brecht bull rushed Randall, knocking him into the brick parapet. Randal’s head hit the hard surface with a loud “crack” and he crumpled.

Lix never hesitated, she reached down, grabbed the gun, took aim and pulled the trigger. Almost at the same time, Witherspoon fired his weapon. Lix’s shot hit first, hitting Brecht in the chest. He staggered backward. Then Witherspoon’s bullet hit Brecht in the back of the head. The Butcher fell heavily to the rainswept surface of the roof. Witherspoon and his men quickly surrounded the body and secured the knife. 

Lix lowered the revolver. Witherspoon approached her. She let him tug the weapon from her hand.

“Well done Miss Storm. You incapacitated him and my shot finished him. He’ll never harm anyone ever again.” Witherspoon lied. He wanted Lix to believe that she had not killed Brecht. Murder, no matter how justified, was a painful weight on anyone’s soul. And people who were not monsters like Brecht would actually feel that pain. He felt this would be a burden for the rest of her life, and one that she should not have to bear. But he was quite certain that it was her shot not his that had killed Gerhard Brecht.

Lix nodded silently and then wearily approached Randall’s prone form.

She sat down on the wet surface, as the rain finally tapered off to a light drizzle as if it knew the passion play had ended. She cradled his head in her lap, gently stroking his hair back from his forehead. She tore a clean strip of the already ripped and bloodied fabric from the sleeve of the shirt she was wearing and delicately cleaned the nasty gash on the side of his head. After a moment he stirred in her arms. His eyes opened but he could not seem to focus them. He tried to move but the waves of pain from both his head and his shoulder made him cease that activity immediately. He struggled to focus on Lix, who he could make out although she was a bit fuzzy.

“Alexis? I…oh god, my head hurts.” He reached up to investigate, but Lix grasped his hand and held it tight.

“Trust me, you don’t want to touch your head right now.”

“Okay, not arguing with that. What happened? Brecht?” He became alarmed and tried to sit up but the wave of dizziness and nausea that swept over him made he relax back into Lix’s arms.

“Brecht is dead.” Lix flicked her eyes to the side where Brecht’s body lay. “Witherspoon and I both shot him but I think it was Witherspoon’s that killed him. But even if Witherspoon hadn’t been here, I would have killed Brecht if it meant saving you.”

“Yes, I believe you would have.”

“You know Randall, we should stop wasting time, you and I. Life is far too short and too precious to waste.”

“Yes, it is. We should not waste another second of it.”

“You are very agreeable tonight.”

“Yes, I suppose I am. Although I hope I can sustain a level of agreeability without having to go through the events of this evening every time hence.”

They smiled at the other through bedraggled hair, plastered to their heads by the rain. He frowned, seeing the injury to her arm. “You need medical attention. And although I love a good storm, I think I’ve had my fill of the elements for tonight.”

Lix chuckled. “You need some medical attention as well. Can you stand up?”

“I think so…”

Witherspoon and one of his men came over and helped Randall get up. The group started slowly toward the ladder.

“By the way, you know we are even now,” Randall murmured. 

“How’s that?” Lix asked, cradling her injured arm.

“My shirt. It’s ruined.”

“Who said it was still your shirt. Maybe it is mine now.” 

Randall looked at her, smiling in spite of the pain and chill wracking his body. His shirt was her’s now. That meant all of the world to him.

“Yes, you’re quite right. I think it is yours now, and perhaps it has been for some time.”

“Indeed, perhaps it has.”

————————————

IV

It was as they said,

one day we’d have life behind us

and you would tell me, “I’m not young anymore.”

And I’d answer just by looking at you

to keep you safe, my love,

from whoever might bear us away

helpless together. The way I look at you

now, the way I ask you

for whatever - a question, sentence,

or judgement - now

that you’re everything, my only

soul trembling

in this first darkness.

-Franco Fortini

—Fin.

  


  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am humbled by what I've learned about the Spanish Civil War. It is a frightening look back at a period of time, now mirrored so closely in recent modern events. It is a warning that hatred can rise to the forefront in any era, and evil does not ever leave our world. A warning that we should heed now more than ever. Kindness will always have to struggle to prevail - but I cannot think of a cause more worthy. Imagining Lix and Randall evolving with the backdrop of that conflict, helped me understand the people they had become in later life. 
> 
> I have no way of knowing if it was the case, but my research into female correspondents of that era led me to many including Gerda Taro and Clare Hollingworth. Hollingworth who was AMAZING and so ahead of her time, was a revelation. I like to think Lix is meant to capture a bit of Clare's spirit and approach. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this. I love the characters of Lix and Randall and wish The Hour had continued a few more seasons to explore them and the rest of the gang's stories. This is my attempt to fill some of that gap. Please comment and let me know what you thought of the story.
> 
> Books I used in researching:  
> Blood of Spain; by Ronald Fraser  
> Hotel Florida: Truth, Love and Death in the Spanish Civil War; by Amanda Vaill  
> Life in 1950's London; by Mike Hutton  
> We Saw Spain Die; by Paul Preston  
> The War of Words 1939-1945; by Asa Briggs  
> Ur-Fascism; An Essay; by Umberto Eco (the essay finishes with a different poem by Franco Fortini, which led me to the one I include at the end of this story)

**Author's Note:**

> I have tried to keep historical references as accurate as possible while weaving them into a fictional story. Shout out/Thanks to "Duck o' Death" for a good round-up of dates associated with Randall and Lix from the show. 
> 
> This work is finished, but I'll be posting a chapter each week, so no worries about there not being an ending. Comments welcome, please let me know what you think.


End file.
